The Setup and the Substitute by Jiffy Kate
Chapter 5
Sophie
After one ofthe most trying days I’ve had in a while, I exit through the doors of the school and walk to my car. Breathing a sigh of relief that it’s Friday and I have the entire weekend to regroup before I have to face small children again.
Subbing in a kindergarten class is no joke and it’s not for the faint of heart.
Until you’ve disposed of a piece of poop from the hallway, with no clue as to how it got there, you can’t even begin to understand what it’s like. Sure, I had gloves. And, of course, I’d rather pick it up than have it tracked all over the classroom, but that’s beside the point.
Days like today solidify the fact that teachers aren’t paid nearly enough.
But if I’d wanted a job that paid the big bucks, I would’ve become a lawyer or got a degree in business administration, like most of my siblings. The Callahans are known for their public service. Most of the Callahan men, and a few women, have held some sort of political office going back to when my grandpa’s grandpa immigrated here from Ireland.
Council members, district attorneys, mayors, state representatives—you name it and a Callahan has probably held the title at one point in history. If my dad has his way about it, a Callahan will eventually live in the White House one day.
Maybe it will be one of my brothers, or even my sister Eleanor, but not me.
I chose to serve the great state of Louisiana in a different way, much to my dad’s dismay.
As I pull out of the parking lot, my phone pings with a notification and then a robotic voice says, “Incoming message from Best Bitch... Drinks at seven?”
“I love that she can read my mind,” I mutter as I come to a stop sign.
“Would you like to send a reply?”
“Yes.”
When I’m prompted to do so, I reply back with, “When and where?”
It only takes me about ten minutes to make it to my apartment in the French Quarter, another thing that dismays not only my father, but my mother as well. Especially my mother. She doesn’t understand why I want to live in this part of the city.
“It’s so loud and boisterous,” she says. “I don’t understand why you just don’t live at home until you marry Gavin.”
- I will never live at home again.
- I will never marry Gavin Winthrop.
- I love my apartment almost as much as I love my freedom and independence.
Just as I push open my front door, another notification pings on my phone. Swiping across the screen, I see Greer has messaged me back.
Best Bitch: wanna grab a bite at Lagniappe before drinks? I’M STARVING.
Me: Sure, what time?
Best Bitch: 5:30? We can beat the rush and still make it to Come Again by 7:00 to meet up with everyone else.
Me: Sounds like a plan!
Glancing at the time, I see it’s only four o’clock, which means I have ample time to unwind with a glass of wine before meeting up with Greer.
After grabbing a glass and the bottle I started last night from the fridge, I open the door to my balcony and step out. Taking a deep breath, I hold it for a second before letting it out, releasing the tension and stress from the day, before plopping down into my comfy, oversized patio chair. This space overlooking the French Quarter is one of the top reasons I decided to rent this apartment. To me, it’s prime real estate and I make it a priority to take advantage of it every chance I get.
Of course, it’s fun to use while entertaining friends. I mean, who doesn’t love partying it up on a balcony in New Orleans? But my favorite way to use it is this—quiet time with just me, myself, and my beverage of choice.
Tea or coffee in the mornings.
Wine in the evenings.
Or my latest mixed drink experiment.
The sun is still up over the Mississippi River, but it’s beginning to slip behind the buildings adjacent from mine, giving me that nice glow without the blazing heat. At least there’s a gentle breeze today, offsetting the relentless humidity.
After a few moments of reflecting and sipping my wine, I pull my phone out of my pocket to snap a pic of my wineglass and the city below. It’s a great shot with amazing aesthetics, begging for a spot on my Instagram page.
When I open the app to upload the photo, I notice there are quite a few notifications. Most of them are likes and comments on my last post, but a few are messages and some message requests, which isn’t unusual.
The unfortunate part of social media is the unsolicited attention from the male species. Typically, I delete and block them without even reading the message, but a name catches my attention.
Owen Thatcher.
It could be a fake account, but why would I all of the sudden be getting messages from someone pretending to be Owen Thatcher? It’s just too coincidental.
But why would he be messaging me?
On Instagram?
Surely, he’s not a creeper.
God, that would be gross . . . and disappointing.
He was so charming and attractive when we met last week—tall and lean, muscular but not too bulky. Dark hair, beard… I don’t usually go for guys with beards, but it works for Owen and accentuates his full lips and smoldering eyes.
Yeah, smoldering.
There was just something about them. Every time I’d look at him, he seemed to be watching me. Not in a creepy way, though, just curiosity… maybe a little attraction.
You know what, this is crazy. I’m reading entirely too much into this.
More than likely, he just has a question about Molly or school.
For goodness sake, Soph, get over yourself.
Holding my breath, I go for it and open the message. As I quickly scan through the words, my heart, which had momentarily stopped working, begins to beat again and then quickly picks up speed.
He wants to meet for coffee to discuss something, but he’s vague and doesn’t give me any other details. He does give me a suggested location… and his cell phone number.
During our first two encounters, I picked up on the fact that he’s a man of few words, so his briefness doesn’t surprise me. But I’m still perplexed by the message, and a bit leery.
Tapping on his profile, I notice it’s a verified account, so that’s good. At least I’m not being catfished. As I scroll, I can tell most of his posts have been curated by a publicist. There are mainly just photos of him playing baseball and some promo type shots. He does have a few posts of him with Molly and Ryan, but those photos don’t show their faces, which corroborates my first impression—he’s protective of them and likes his privacy.
Going back to the message, I read over it again.
He wants to meet this coming Wednesday at Neutral Grounds, a coffee shop not far from my apartment. It’s public and in a busy part of the French Quarter.
Deciding I don’t have anything to lose by meeting him, I quickly type out a reply before I lose my nerve or find my common sense.
Hi Owen,
I feel like I should ask you for a secret code or something to make sure you’re not impersonating the REAL Owen Thatcher. But your account is verified, so I guess that will have to do.
This is the REAL Sophie Callahan letting you know I will meet you at 4:15, not a minute earlier or later, at Neutral Grounds on Wednesday.
Laughing at my own absurdity, I close out the app and set my phone on the table. Taking a sip of my wine, I shake my head at this odd turn of events and continue to ponder why he’d want to meet with me.
I’ve deduced—from our time at the ice cream shop and what Molly’s said in class—that Owen is a single dad. I could be wrong, but the vibes are strong. And he wasn’t wearing a ring.
If he were to ask me on a date, I’d totally take him up on it.
So many things about Owen appeal to me. Not only his physical appearance and the fact he’s older than me—what can I say? I love older men—but I really love the way he is with Molly and Ryan. I love that even though he has a job that takes him away from them frequently, he still seems to be very present and involved in their lives.
I’m not sure when that became a qualifier for hotness, but it so is.
Coming from a large, prestigious family, I missed out on things like ice cream dates after school. My mom and dad were always busy with luncheons and dinner parties. I had my siblings to hang out with, but being the baby of the family meant I was left out a lot. Eleanor is my only sister and she’s six years older than me. To be honest, we’ve never had that much in common, except our last name.
When my phone pings again, I can’t help but jump to grab it and read the incoming message.
To the REAL Sophie Callahan,
Thank you for agreeing to the meeting.
I look forward to Wednesday.
-The REAL Owen Thatcher
The smile that the message elicits is low-key embarrassing, but I’m alone on my patio, so I let it happen and try not to read too much into Owen Thatcher asking me to meet him for coffee on a random Wednesday.
Nope, nothing to see here.
An hour later, when I walk into Lagniappe, the smile is still lingering and the second Greer sees me, her eyes squint as she walks closer.
“Did you get laid today?”
Throwing my head back, I laugh. “No, I didn’t. Thanks for reminding me.”
“Then why are you smiling like that?” she asks, not sounding convinced.
Shrugging as the hostess has us follow her to a table, I answer nonchalantly, “I’m just in a good mood. It’s Friday. You know I love the weekend.”
“Yeah,” she says, taking the chair across from me. “But that’s not your weekend smile. It’s more like your I-just-had-an-orgasm smile.”
Still laughing, I shake my head. “I haven’t had a non-self-induced orgasm since I broke up with Blaine.”
“That was six months ago.”
Our waiter walks up, putting an end to our conversation for the time being. But she’s right. It’s been quite a while since I’ve been with anyone. This hiatus from sex wasn’t intentional. I’m not the type of person who needs to be in a committed relationship to do the deed. As a matter of fact, it’s probably my longest drought since I lost my virginity.
I’ve been busy and focused on my teaching career. Plus, I just haven’t met anyone lately who’s appealed to me that way.
Until recently.
But I plan on keeping that to myself for the time being, at least until after we meet for coffee on Wednesday.
“Are you drinking?” Greer asks, perusing the wine menu as our waiter stands by while we make drink selections.
“I had a glass of wine before I left the house,” I admit. Okay, so it was more like two glasses. “So, I’ll stick with that.”
“Good call,” Greer says, placing the menu on the table. “Red or white?”
“White.”
She places our wine and appetizer order, then she falls right back into our abandoned conversation. “So we need to get you laid, but I still want to know what that smile was all about.”
Realizing she won’t let this go, I decide to go for a half truth. “I got a message from a guy today. Could be totally platonic, but I’m waiting to see. I guess, the smile was just that feeling of possibility and the unknown. I haven’t felt that in a while and it feels good.”
“Do share.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” I say, waving her off. “But I promise you’ll be the first person I come to when and if it does.”
Raising her hands in surrender, she lets out a sigh. “Fine, but I still think you need to dust out the cobwebs… what about Hank? He’s single again and you two have always had a friendly vibe.”
Scoffing, I furrow my brows and lean against the table. “I’ve never wanted to fuck him. We’re just friends. You know that.”
“There’s always Gavin,” she sing-songs.
When I make a gagging sound, Greer dissolves into a fit of laughter. She knows how much that pisses me off, but she loves to pull the Gavin card occasionally, just to get a rise out of me. Okay, so fine, at one time, years ago, Gavin and I were a little more than friends. But that one encounter made me realize there were absolutely no romantic feelings in my body for him.
Has that stopped our mothers from planning our wedding and naming our non-existent future children?
No.
“Will he be at the bar tonight?” I ask, suddenly feeling like calling it an early night if he is. It’s been a long week and the last thing I want is Gavin acting like we’re still more than friends. The whole charade is exhausting and one I’ve had to put up with for far too long. I’ve always thought he’d get tired of it and find a nice girl from a good family and put all of this bullshit behind us once and for all by marrying her.
No such luck.
The waiter comes back with our wine, letting us know our appetizers will be out in a few minutes. Before he’s even walked away, Greer and I both pick up our glasses and take very large, unladylike gulps. There are zero pretenses between us and it’s only one of many things I love about my best friend.
“As far as I know it’s just you, me, Hank, Whitney, and Tate,” she finally says, swirling what’s left of the red wine in her glass and giving it a look of approval.
I nod, glancing down at my menu when I see our waiter already coming back with our appetizer.
Even though we eat here frequently, I always have a hard time deciding because of all the amazing choices.
Since we’re having an appetizer, and saving room for more wine, Greer and I decide to split a burger with Gouda, caramelized onions, and bacon jam with a side of sweet potato fries.
Another reason I love my best friend. She splits burgers with me and never questions my need for wine.
“How’s the job hunt going?” she asks as we dig into the shrimp remoulade.
Sighing, I finish my bite before answering. “The position I interviewed for last week has been filled. I have another interview next Friday, but I’m not extremely hopeful. It’s for a fifth-grade science teacher and even though my degree says I can teach it, I don’t have much experience with the grade or subject matter.”
Shrugging, I take another sip of wine.
“More than anything I want a job at a school where I feel like I can make a difference.”
To prove to myself, my parents, and everyone who thinks I’ll end up living off my trust fund, that I can do this.
Greer reaches across and grabs my hand to show her support. “You’re going to find the perfect job. I’ve never known you to not achieve something you put your heart and soul into.”
Twisting my lips to the side, I squeeze her hand. “Thanks for always believing in me.”
“That’s what best bitches are for.”
She’s the best in the world.
We’ve known each other since fifth grade when her parents relocated to New Orleans for her dad’s job. Ever since our first play date, orchestrated by our moms, we’ve been attached at the hip and have seen each other through every important moment—getting our periods, boyfriends, losing our virginities, debutante balls, graduations.
You name it, Greer has been at my side.
We’re cut from the same cloth, both raised with silver spoons in our mouths, but not interested in becoming carbon copies of our parents. We appreciate the life we’ve been given but wish to do more and be better. She’s down to earth and doesn’t have a pretentious bone in her body, which makes her a fucking unicorn in the circle we run in.
I love the other people we’re meeting up with tonight—Hank, Whit, Tate. They’re good friends, but I don’t let them as far in as I do with Greer. She’s the only person I truly trust.
On our walk over to the bar, with Greer’s arm looped through mine, we take in the cooler evening air and let the spirit of the French Quarter do its thing.
From the sound of a sax to the smell of various local cuisine, it’s a whole mood.
“Two drinks and I’m done,” she says, tilting her head back to look up at the Cathedral as we pass by. “I’m doing an early yoga class in the morning and I have to be at the studio by seven. George has me covering another stupid public interest story tomorrow.”
Greer is a news reporter for a local television station. To show just how much integrity and gumption she has, once she graduated college, she could have easily used her last name to get any job she wanted in the world of television, since her family owns a large communications company that owns two of the local stations.
But instead, she decided to use her mother’s maiden name, took a job with a rival station, and has literally worked her way from the ground up.
I admire the heck out of her.
“You’re going to kick ass at this public interest story and wow the pants off George. He won’t know what hit him and he’ll be forced to give you the good assignments,” I tell her, confident in every word I said.
“And that’s not the wine talking,” I add, even though I am feeling the few glasses we had at the restaurant. Plus the two I had earlier at my apartment. Good thing there was food mixed in there or I’d already be toast. “I’ll be waking early to see my favorite news reporter, followed by an exhilarating session of doing laundry, and then volunteering at Charity House. It’s going to be a wild Saturday for me too.”
Greer laughs, squeezing my arm as we pass through a small crowd to get to the bar. Before we can even reach for the handle, a tall guy with big muscles opens the door for us.
I give him a smile and duck inside, searching out the rest of our group.
The place is already packed and the juke box is in full swing. People are lined up at the bar and a large group in the corner is getting loud over a darts game. Thankfully, I spot Hank above the crowd and reach back for Greer’s hand so I can pull her through the crowd.
As we get close, my stomach drops.
When I stop abruptly, Greer crashes into my back.
“What the—?” she mutters, looking over my shoulder and spotting the reason for my sudden halt. “Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
Gavin is standing next to Hank and his eyes have already found me.
“Two drinks and we’re out.”
Plastering on a smile only a Callahan can muster, I continue toward the table, greeting my friends, even Gavin.
Hank is still in a suit, obviously coming here straight from the law firm where he’s an intern. It’s the same one my brother Harrison used to work for before he left to teach law at Tulane. After Hank finishes this last year of his studies and passes the bar, he’ll be on his way to partner. Probably fast-tracked, if the truth be known.
Unlike Greer and I, Hank has no shame in tossing around his last name to get what he wants.
It doesn’t mean he’s not a good person.
We’re just not the same.
“Bitches,” Whitney says, squeezing Greer with one arm and me with another, pulling us together in a group hug.
“Whit,” I say, pulling back to get a good look at her amazing outfit—a pantsuit that looks like it just walked off the runway. Perfect hair and makeup complete the ensemble and who Whitney Rothberg is as a person. “Damn girl!”
Doing a little spin, she bats her long lashes and laughs. “Mama and I went to New York last week… what do you think?”
“I think Mr. Rothberg better show up soon, if he knows what’s good for him,” I joke, because we all know that even though Whit is working toward her MRS degree, whoever she ends up marrying, better plan on her wearing the proverbial pants in the family.
Tate joins our huddle and after we order a round of drinks, we fall into the type of comfortable, familiar conversation as only longtime friends can. It vacillates between memories and current events and back. Eventually, the guys join in and we’re all tossing around “remember whens”.
“Oh, God,” Gavin says, holding out a mostly empty whiskey glass. The liquor has made his cheeks a little pink and his eyes a little glassy. “Remember that time Soph showed up to that party in eighth grade dressed as a bald eagle?”
Now my cheeks feel warm and I can’t help rolling my eyes as I finish the last of my glass of wine. Yeah, that two-drink limit Greer and I discussed on the walk over went out the window about thirty minutes ago, right in the middle of Hank telling us about a scandalous affair happening at the law firm.
“She had the wings… and feathers,” he says, shaking his head. “I’ve never seen someone so committed to a costume.”
“No one told me we weren’t dressing up!” I admit, I’m still pissed off about that.
“Even if we were, you were a bald eagle,” Whitney says with a scoff. “Who dresses up as a bird?”
I loved birds, what can I say? I was fascinated by the way they’re so free and can swoop from one place to another. Maybe that was the beginning of my wanderlust.
“It was an amazing costume,” Greer says, coming to my defense. “I thought you rocked it.”
“That brown bodysuit was definitely… eye opening,” Gavin says, his eyes falling to my chest.
On that note. “Oh, would you look at the time,” I say, standing from my barstool and placing my wineglass on the table.
“I’m just teasing,” Gavin says, raising his hands in the air in a placating gesture. “Stay.”
Greer again comes to my aid. “I actually have to go too. I have to be at the studio early in the morning.”
“I can drive you,” Hank offers, setting his drink on the table. He’s been nursing the same glass of whiskey since we got here. Always the responsible one and never willing to tarnish his reputation.
“No,” Greer says, waving him off. “I’ll just call an Uber.”
Everyone starts pairing off and making arrangements to either share a ride or drive another home. Gavin sidles up beside me, leaning down to whisper in my ear. “Let me walk you home.”
“I’m good,” I say, giving him a small, tight smile.
“I don’t want you walking alone,” he says, his words a little firmer and finite.
That kind of feels like Gavin telling me what to do or invoking his dominance and it makes my spine straighten. Turning, I level him with my stare. “Thank you, but I’ll be fine.”
“I forgot I left my charger at your apartment,” Greer says loudly so she can be heard above the music and conversations.
Giving her a silent thank you, I turn back to Gavin. “Greer will walk with me.”
The look on his face lets me know he’s not happy with the turn of events, but he leans in to kiss my cheek. “Be safe. Maybe we can have dinner soon.”
“Maybe,” I say as sweetly as I can, just wanting to end this and put some distance between me and Gavin.
When Greer and I are out of the bar and making our way across Jackson Square, I finally exhale, feeling my body relax. “God, he makes me… ugh,” I groan, not sure how to put it into words.
“Want to puke?” Greer offers, making me laugh and easing even more of the tension. “Do me a favor,” she says thoughtfully as we continue to walk toward my apartment. “Please don’t ever give into his schemes. I know you get a lot of pressure from your mom when it comes to Gavin, but there’s always been something about him that doesn’t set well with me. I know we’ve all been friends forever, but I don’t know…”
I do know.
“Thanks for looking out for me, but don’t worry. I’m not blind to Gavin Winthrop.”
On the surface, he’s a catch. Well-known family, great education, with boy-next-door good looks. What more could a girl want, right? But under the surface, I’ve always had the feeling there’s something not so nice or appealing.
I don’t want anything from Gavin—not even a ride home.
And especially not a dinner date.