All ONES: The Complete Collection

by Aleatha Romig

  “That’s okay, my lady, the second one sold me.”

  Vicky’s assistant taps on the open door. “Miss Price, they’re ready for you.”

  “Trevor, I need to go.”

  “I love you. You can do this.”

  My mouth goes dry and my entire body freezes.

  Did he just say that he loves me?

  I can’t respond.

  “Shana, you can do this.”

  “Trevor?”

  “Call me. I’ll be waiting.” And the line goes dead.

  Holy shit.

  Dropping those three words on me isn’t what I need seconds before walking into this meeting. As if I don’t have enough things to think about...

  And then I let his words sink in and for a moment, take time to smile.

  He did it. For only a split second, Trevor took my mind off this job. He reminded me that there’s more to life than what is going to happen in this meeting. I’m not sure if that was his intention; nevertheless, it worked.

  As I walk toward the conference room of my destiny, I remember the call Stephen and I had with Neil Butler. Our boss in juniors made his case clear. He wants us back. He wants both of us, and he’s even worked out the numbers to put the money where his mouth is.

  He’s heard the rumors about us moving to lingerie and worked to receive authorization to increase our salary to match what we would make in lingerie. The kicker is that it would be in London. We’d be going back to stay.

  During the phone call, I broached the subject of Stephen returning on his own and hiring his own assistant. While Stephen still scoffs at the idea, Neil didn’t reject it.

  Now it seems that the only factor separating the two positions is location.

  Or is it?

  In London, I’ll report to Neil, the man who went out of his way to facilitate our return. In New York, I’ll report to...

  “Hello, Vicky...” I say, greeting everyone around the table as I enter the conference room.

  Stephen hands me a small-stemmed glass and a tiny wine bottle as our plane reaches cruising altitude over the Atlantic Ocean. “You can’t regret trying.”

  “That’s what they say,” I reply, my eyes still puffy, and my damn nose running like a faucet.

  “You made the right decision.”

  I turn his way. “I don’t know. You could have had juniors all to yourself. You’d be in London with Max, and if I’d taken what she offered, I’d be in New York.” The words are like the twisting of a knife in my heart. I’m not in New York and it’s my fault.

  “It was a bullshit offer.”

  I finish pouring the contents of the small bottle into my glass and nod. “It was worse than a bullshit offer. Move to the children’s department with the title I had before I left for London, including a twenty-percent decrease in salary and loss of my PTO—paid time off.” I turn his way, my voice growing louder. “What kind of bullshit offer is that?”

  Stephen’s arm comes up and around my shoulder. “It’s a suck-balls bullshit offer. It’s worse than that. It’s a sucking-hairy-balls bullshit offer.”

  “She couldn’t deny the numbers,” I say. “She wanted to, but there they were in black and white. In the room full of people, she couldn’t kick me out after all we accomplished. So, instead, she came up with the shitty, hairy-balls offer.”

  “And you told her what to do with it.”

  “For a moment,” I admit, “I was so flabbergasted; I couldn’t comprehend what she had said. It didn’t make sense. I started in juniors. Juniors is ahead of children’s on the hierarchy of departments. She wanted to demote me to children and decrease my pay.”

  “Because you scare her. She sees your passion and talent. She’s intimidated.”

  I set my glass within the indented circle on my small tray and let my face fall forward. “For a second, I almost took it.”

  “I know, honey.”

  Tears fill my eyes as my shoulders shudder.

  “I wanted to stay...”

  Stephen waits until I’ve quieted a little before offering me his napkin. “Here, your impersonation of a raccoon is getting too real. I think there’s some TSA regulation about wild animals on planes.”

  Though I don’t give a damn about my mascara, I take his napkin. In two dabs it’s covered in black. “I-I barely got to see him,” I say between sobs. “I had tried so hard to have hope. And when Vicky said she had an offer...before it was laid out...I did. It was all right there.”

  Stephen isn’t holding my shoulder any longer, but his hand is covering mine. “What was all there?”

  “You know? The dream. The whole entire picture. I never realized how badly I wanted it. I never let myself think about it. My goal has always been my career. I’ve worked my ass off to get where I am.”

  Stephen nods as he hands me my wine. “You have. It’s like it’s nearly totally gone.”

  “What?”

  “Your ass. You don’t even have one.” He nods. “Legs straight to back.”

  I shake my head. “It was there. I could see it.”

  “I find Pilates helps.”

  “Stephen, I’m talking about the dream—the career and that someone special. I could get used to spending all my nonworking time with him. I did. In two damn weeks, I got used to it. Falling asleep and waking. Simple things like standing side by side when we brushed our teeth, having morning coffee...I know it’s dumb, but it was...

  “It was...” I go on. “As in past tense. It’s over. I gave it up to not lose twenty percent in salary and my paid days off.”

  “No, you didn’t. That decrease she offered you was based on your current salary. It’s not based on the increase Neil offered. By not accepting her offer, not only did your income not decrease by twenty percent, but also it is going to be increasing another fifteen.

  “And besides the money,” Stephen continues, “you’re back on point in juniors. Your title hasn’t changed for the worse. And one more thing, you’re working where you’re appreciated.”

  Suddenly, I have a thought. “Vicky talked to you first. Did you know what she would offer me before it happened?”

  “No, not exactly.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask.

  “Boss lady, before you went in there, I told her what I’ve told you: we are a team. I’m not upset about the way this went. I’m moving back to London, we’re still together, and I too am getting that fifteen percent increase that Neil offered.”

  “He obviously didn’t know what was going down in New York. He could have had us—”

  “Or he did,” Stephen suggests, “and he was afraid Witch Vicky might turn you against the company as a whole, and he didn’t want to lose you.”

  “How can you always make me feel better?”

  “It’s in my job description,” Stephen says with a smile. “And for the record, I know that this time with Trevor, this time leaving for London, it will be different.”

  “I want that. It’s just that as I was leaving, he seemed so...I don’t know the right word... distracted.”

  “Maybe he was holding out for the same dream. You know how those macho men are?”

  I scoff. “Like you?”

  “Yes, exactly like me.” Stephen covers my hand again. “No, macho men want to fix everything. Your man is a planner and a builder. My guess is that he seemed distracted because that was what his man-mind was doing. Instead of giving you his full attention, he was figuring and contemplating. You know, like with the bridges and roads.”

  I sigh, recalling how Trevor kept looking at his phone instead of at me. I know that’s a modern-day issue with everyone, but we were standing at JFK outside of security. Our kiss goodbye was about as romantic as a brother kissing a sister. Okay, it was a little better than that because it was on the lips and that would be...Eww.

  “May I get you more wine?” the flight attendant asks, looking my way.

  “Oh, the answer to that question for the entire flight is yes,” I say. “An
d even if you have to wake me, it’s still yes.”

  “She’ll have one more for now,” Stephen interjects, lifting one finger to emphasize his point.

  “And for you, sir?”

  “One also, for now. Thank you.”

  “You’re not my babysitter,” I remind him after she walks away.

  “No, I’m your assistant. We’re not in a hotel room with pizza. We can’t exactly follow your mother’s rule with pretzels and peanuts. It’s my job to keep you in a state that will allow you to walk off the plane because we’re not losing our new increase in salary or giving Witch Vicky ammunition to point fingers.”

  Leaning my head on Stephen’s shoulders, I close my eyes. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  It’s then I remember Trevor’s words on the telephone and I reach for my purse, grabbing my phone.

  “What are you doing?” Stephen asks. “You can’t call or text from up here.”

  “No, but I can send an email. The airline has internet.”

  He covers my hand with his. “Maybe we shouldn’t drunken email from fifty thousand feet.”

  “It’s not drunken emailing. It’s saying what I should’ve said this afternoon.” I squint my eyes, but the letters and icons on the screen are still blurry. Thrusting my phone toward Stephen, I say, “You’re my assistant. Connect me to the internet and find Trevor’s email.”

  “Shana, is this a good idea?”

  “My assistant.”

  A few minutes later he hands me back my phone. “You’re connected to Wi-Fi. I have Trevor Willis’s email. Are you sure you want to do this?”

  I take my phone and with one eye closed carefully type out my message.

  Trevor,

  I didn’t want to leave you. I hope we can do this long distance.

  No matter what happens. I heard you this afternoon. I’m sorry I didn’t say it too. My silence wasn’t because I don’t but because I was shocked that you said it.

  Just so you know and never doubt...I love you, too.

  Yours,

  Shana

  I hit send before I can change my mind and hand my phone back to Stephen. “Can you disconnect the Wi-Fi?”

  “Yes, boss lady, it’s very difficult. It’s called airplane mode.”

  I lay my head back on his shoulder and close my eyes. “See, that’s why we’re a great team.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Shana

  There’s nothing like sleeping in your own bed.

  That saying is true. Since we landed at Heathrow Airport on Saturday morning and Ubered to our respective homes, it’s what I’ve been doing. Of course, because it’s all I’ve been doing, I have no food in my apartment—well, other than a few open boxes of cereal that may or may not be stale upon my return. The only thing worth trying to consume in the refrigerator—since I can’t exactly drink condiments—is apple juice, and if I were a betting woman, I’d wager that it is close to fermentation at this point.

  Basically, the only safe risks are the water bottles, but they don’t do much for nourishment.

  With the exception of the sandwich and chips Stephen brought over Saturday night, I haven’t given eating too much thought.

  Or...unpacking.

  Or...shopping for food.

  Or...doing laundry.

  Or...showering.

  As I snuggle under my covers, I give the last one—showering—more thought. With my nose scrunched, I move it back outside the blankets and I make myself a deal. The next time I wake, showering will be on the agenda.

  In the meantime, I prefer sleep.

  As my temples pound, I’m aware that this self-imposed reprieve from life can’t last forever.

  On Monday morning, I’ll need to go to work. I’ll need to face Neil Butler and thank him for his faith in me. Yes, I know if he stopped by at this moment, faith wouldn’t be high on his list. Pity might have a higher ranking. That’s why I’m staying put under the covers, just me and my stinky self.

  Facing the shower means facing life, and I’m not ready to make that move.

  I need some more time to wallow in my own heartache.

  And headache.

  Does lack of food cause a headache?

  I decide to think about that later if I can come up with something to eat.

  Maybe I could add mustard to what’s remaining of my houseplants and call it a salad?

  Are houseplants edible?

  Maybe I should Google that shit first.

  When Stephen and I first touched down at Heathrow, I turned on my phone long enough to see that I didn’t have a return email from Trevor. I did have multiple voice mails from Kimbra and even one from Duncan, which seemed strange. I’m assuming that he’s probably simply being a good husband.

  Maybe one day I’ll listen to them and find out what they say.

  Right now, I prefer the company of dreams.

  Dreams are truly magical places filled with memories and imagination. In dreams I can do things I could never do in reality. I can fly. I can transport myself back to New York, to Trevor’s apartment, to his fire escape. And then, in the blink of an eye, we’re together in Central Park, at Serendipity 3, or in his bed. The possibilities are endless, and in dreams, the destinations aren’t conscious. Each time I close my eyes, it’s like an adventure waiting to happen.

  When I first arrived home, I turned on the television. I’m not sure why. I think it was to hear voices. Truly, I should have thought of it earlier. There were banners and flags everywhere as I Ubered home. Of course, at that time, none of it was registering. I’ll blame it on the flight or the wine. Either way... it has begun.

  The royal wedding.

  The greatest display of love since Romeo and Juliet.

  The prince has finally found his princess.

  Everyone is overjoyed.

  And it’s a big deal.

  The guests, crowds, royal family, and state officials.

  Streets are blockaded and the masses are gathering.

  The festivities don’t even start for a few days, but the entire world is abuzz with love.

  True love.

  I pull the covers closer to my chin.

  Well, screw them.

  It’s a wonder that Stephen and I made it home. The lady arranging our flight wasn’t kidding that changing our flights was out of the question. This place is a madhouse, complete with minute-by-minute coverage broadcast around the world.

  Unable to listen anymore about the happy couple, I turned off the television. It doesn’t matter. I’m sure I will be able to catch it later. There’s no doubt that the live coverage will be going on for days, and after that, it will all be available on cable TV and YouTube.

  My lack of interest in the impending nuptials can’t be blamed on my American roots. I’m actually a fan of the royals. I always have been. I even love the history: King Henry VIII, the Tudors and Windsors, the White Queen and the Red Queen. My current disinterest stems more from my melancholy mood.

  I almost said bitchy, but truthfully, bitchy went out the window as I walked out on Vicky’s insulting offer.

  The energy necessary to be bitchy dissipated by the second as I bit my tongue, stopping all the words I wanted to say, smiled politely, thanked Vicky for her consideration, and told her that she and the entire lingerie division was welcome, considering the fact that Stephen and I had traveled to New York on a moment’s notice, saved their show, and increased their sales. I then stood, told everyone in attendance that I would be returning to London and to juniors since the counteroffer I’d received from Neil was too good to pass up. I then bid everyone goodbye, leaving Vicky’s shitty offer sitting unsigned on the table as she stared at me with her mouth agape. I did get the feeling she didn’t know about Neil Butler’s counteroffer, which gave me a smidgen of satisfaction.

  I left so quickly that I didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye to Chantilly or others I’d come to like in the lingerie department. The truth is that I
had to leave while my head was still high and eyes were without tears.

  Needless to say, that all changed the moment I walked out the doors and onto Fifth Avenue.

  Now, without the adrenaline necessary to do more, I once again surrender to dreamland.

  Before I slip away, I contemplate checking the time, but if I do, my rational mind will tell me that people shouldn’t be sleeping at four on a Sunday afternoon. I’m not ready to listen to my rational mind. Besides, my body still believes that four in the afternoon in London is ten in the morning in New York.

  The tips of my lips turn upward and tears return to my eyes as I recall a week ago. Last Sunday at ten in the morning, I was still in Trevor’s bed. After my little fashion show during the middle of the night, we were both out for the count.

  Coma by cannoli.

  We woke in time for another round of much sweeter lovemaking, bagels and coffee, and then a private shower concert before going to Duncan and Kimbra’s. No wonder I was embarrassed when Kimbra brought up death by cannoli. I was possibly one more crazy sex round away from being a victim.

  But not anymore...

  Cannoli will only come in my dreams.

  I close my eyes and recall...I’m almost to that place where sleep comes, erasing reality...

  Bang.

  Bang.

  Bang.

  “What the hell?” I ask, muttering to myself as I try to decipher the sound of pounding. “Is someone doing construction?”

  Bang.

  Bang.

  Bang.

  “On a Sunday?”

  Shit.

  Bang.

  Bang.

  Bang.

  No, someone is knocking—no, pounding—on my front door. I consider my possibilities. If I hide under my blankets, maybe whoever it is will leave. It’s not exactly like I’m up for visitors.

  Another round of loud, annoying knocks.

  Maybe it’s the police? Someone reported the scent of dying.

  I lower my nose under the blanket.

  No, it isn’t that bad.

  Maybe it’s Stephen with food.

  But wouldn’t he call?