Wrong Text, Right Love

by Claudia Burgoa

  “I am … unattached,” she almost stutters.

  “Single and not afraid to mingle,” I tell her, with the most excited voice I can evoke. “There’s nothing wrong with being married or being single. It’s about the way you feel on the inside. Your state of mind should not depend on outside factors. It should depend on you.”

  “What’s your point?” She drums her fingers on top of the yellow pad and stares at me with annoyance.

  “Well, if we publish a book about finding love we only target one market, single women. Along with it, you’re single-shaming them. I refuse to tell them that there’s something wrong with them—or with me—because we’re single. I want to reach out to every woman in the world and say, ‘Hey, you deserve to be happy. You deserve to be you and to learn to feel all the emotions, while you also learn how to cope with them.’ I know several women who would love this book and some of them are in a committed relationship. How about you?”

  I take a deep breath and before anyone can interrupt me, I continue, “Wouldn’t you love to read a book where you learn to be happy. How many people say, ‘I’ll be happy once I get a promotion? I’ll be happy once I start dating.’ We prevent ourselves from being happy before any of these events happen. We program ourselves to feel that we are successful because of outside factors. It’s time to learn to be happy, despite what we don’t have or the journey ahead of us.”

  Everyone in the room nods. As I’m on a roll, I continue my speech by saying, “I want to write a book that fits every person in the world. One size fits all. Swipe Right for Yourself.”

  Rosi gives me an unamused look. I keep my smile on point. Something of what I said has to move her little hard heart and convince her to give me a chance.

  “Sounds promising, but it doesn’t connect to the brand of books we’ve been publishing,” she claims. “Your brand is sex. Coupling. You can’t expect me to just let you make a one-eighty because—”

  “There’s no one-eighty. My values won’t be compromised. In fact, I’m going to be pushing for them. Sex will be a topic. Coupling won’t be disregarded. Teach your partner how to satisfy you has to be an entire chapter. Satisfying each other will take another chunk of the book.”

  Another woman who has been watching and scribbling on her pad says, “What if she writes a book called, The Last Swipe: A Guide to Find Your Happiness.”

  Rosi and I stare at her. I’m not sure what Rosi expects. Me… I’m trying to think on my feet because, if I’m smart, I could use that title.

  “How about, The Last Swipe: A Guide to Find Yourself?” I offer.

  “You’ll have to date,” Rosi adds. “We can tweak the title as you start sending us chapters, but I want to see you posting about your day and how it translates into this book. You’re moving on from Ian and finding the right guy to complement your life. Not to make you happy.”

  Fuck, she’s good. She twisted my words and made this into what I’m offering.

  “I can’t take dating off the table?”

  “No. If I wanted yet another self-help book, I’d hire a ghostwriter to pen it for us and ask some starlet to endorse it. Women buy your books because you are a real person with parents, sisters, a good-looking brother, and a precious vault of stories from your childhood. People love that you are honest and flawed. They want to be you because you’re not afraid to fake an orgasm Melanie Griffith style in the middle of an adult novelty store. Not everyone posts those things on their social media—you do.”

  “Meg Ryan,” I correct her. How dare she confuse them?

  She glares at me.

  “But who cares, right? I can do that,” I say, casually. “Put myself back on the market, while dealing with my breakup and my regular job. Every person in the world does it, why not me? I can show everyone that putting yourself out there is the most natural thing, and if I can find someone along the way—”

  “No, you’ll find someone,” she interrupts me.

  “I’m not a reality show starlet who can just follow the script,” I protest.

  “Well, you have a year to find your other half—or fake it. I don’t care. If you want me to allow the title change and the deadline extension, you have to do this one thing. Do we understand each other?”

  “Two years,” I request.

  “Nine months,” she counters.

  “Eighteen months,” I compromise.

  “You have one year. That is twelve months to finish the book, and I want to see the first five chapters by the end of July,” she replies.

  “July 31st of next year. The next six weeks are too hectic for me. I, at least, need six weeks to settle into a new place, before I can start dating.”

  She huffs. “When can I see the first chapters?”

  “October,” I offer. “I have to do research, gather enough material, and have the right mindset before I sit down and write.”

  “I want to see screenshots or pictures of what you’re doing on social media.”

  “That’s a given,” I concede. “Though, if I’m going to sacrifice my principles, I have to ask for more money. My agent will be sending you a new contract.”

  “We make the rules, Ms. Brassard.”

  I smile. “Yeah, but if you want me to be the one writing this book and you want my face on the cover. You’ll have to pay the price. We both know that no one would sell it the way I do. Don’t we?”

  With that, I pick up my purse and walk out of the conference room.

  I head to the airport and exchange my nine o’clock ticket for the next available flight. I use my credit card to pay for the first-class ticket—it’s totally worth it. Before I have to turn off my phone, I email Sheila.

  To: S. Daniels

  From: P. Brassard

  Tuesday May 19th

  Subject: Meeting Adjourned

  I recorded the meeting, so you can listen to everything that was said. Make sure to increase my deal by at least twenty-five percent. Before you call me freaking out, I’m almost out of battery. I’ll be off the grid until the annual trip is over—unless I don’t make it back alive. You know those trips with my family are intense. One of us might just lose our shit and end up becoming a mass murderer.

  If it’s me, make sure to send me strawberries in jail. It can happen… It might happen. Seriously, who goes to the woods without any electronics these days? My parents. They are insane.

  Before you get upset, just listen to what they are asking me to do. They want me to put myself out there when I’m on a dating embargo. Nyx wants me to get my own place. This is what happens when you don’t renew your lease because you swear you’ll be moving in with your boyfriend of two years, but he breaks up with you.

  Then, I was too naïve to believe that my sister would let me stay with her for at least a year. If I had known, I wouldn’t have lent Eros my savings. Where am I supposed to live now?

  Shit.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have paid for the first-class ticket.

  I wish you lived closer to me—because you know everyone, not so I could live with you.

  At this point, I need a miracle. Where am I going to find a nice place where I can sleep and use as an office space? I’d take anything, even a small studio. As long as they don’t require a deposit. My bank account is waiting for my next royalty payment, another sponsorship deal, or … you know, whatever you can get me.

  Sending love to you and the fam.

  Persy

  Four

  Him

  Friday, May 22nd

  The instrumental music plays over the sound system throughout the penthouse. Anyone who listens to it might think it’s some unknown piece of classical music. Ramin Djawadi creations are timeless. I learned about the guy while watching Game of Thrones. What can I say? I’m a closeted geek.

  The music is loud enough to keep any other noise from entering the room. The light is dimmed. All my focus is on this design. This is the first time in months that I have a project that I want to give my undivided attention
to. The beauty of being my own boss is that I can just take on jobs that satisfy me. Designing a prototype for a robotic limb is a new venture. If I get it right, it might help the world. Fuck, I’ll even back up the production, so it’s not expensive for those who need it.

  My brother hates when I get lost in work, and he doesn’t understand that I hate it even more when he is calling insistently. The continuous buzz of my cell phone distracts me and takes away all my concentration.

  “What the fuck do you want?” I answer.

  “Good afternoon, Sunshine,” the caller says on the other line, when I check the number, I realize it’s not Nate. It’s Clyde.”

  My stepbrother irritates the fuck out of me. His wife and I don’t get along—more like she hates us. But we try to tolerate each other once in a while. Honestly, I don’t understand why we even speak to them. Nate, my twin brother, says that it is because we don’t comprehend the concept of happiness or families.

  He might be onto something. That should be my next project, create a software that finds your other half—I trust an algorithm more than I trust faith or whatever it is that gives you that stupid happy ending.

  “What’s with the mood?” he chuckles.

  “I’m busy,” I grunt. “What do you need?”

  “Friendly, as usual.”

  “Clyde,” I warn him.

  “I need the penthouse next door,” he states. “Nate said I can use it, but that I should give you a heads up about it.”

  Closing my eyes, I take a few deep breaths. Playing nice with the family is a pain in the ass. Why did I agree on selling that to Nathaniel when he never uses it?

  “For how long?”

  “Dude, the place isn’t yours. I’m just giving you a courtesy call,” he states. “Look, I understand that you don’t care much about anyone, but this is important.”

  I sigh and run a hand through my hair. “You are paying for the cleaning service.”

  “What the fuck?”

  “Listen, I have an agreement with Nate, and if you’re taking over the place, it’s your responsibility to pay for everything, including the utility services and the cleaning crew. Are you going to need the grocery service?”

  I hear some mumbling that I can’t make out and then he says, “No, and you can skip the cleaning service too.”

  Did he not understand that it stays? I don’t bother to tell him and ask, “Is there anything else?”

  “Just don’t be an asshole,” he says, and it sounds like a warning, but his voice is so weak that I laugh.

  Instead of cancelling the grocery service, I switch it to my apartment. Nate never uses it, but I pay them weekly, just in case my brother decides to move in next door. Also, they need it. It’s not really a service, more like a single mom and her teenage son who live in this building. Every week, they ask what I’m going to need, and each week, I tell them Nate won’t be in town, but I pay them.

  Nate moving next door is unlikely to happen. He only flies to Denver when he needs me to sign some contracts or convince me to take on a project. We created LNCWare twelve years ago. I create software to make life easier. Nate sells it. He’s the face of the company, though people know I’m the creator. We’ve always been the perfect yin to the other’s yang. We wouldn’t be anywhere without each other.

  It would be nice to have him next door more often. He swears it’s a matter of time before he moves. He’s always jumping from Seattle to New York where we have offices and our headquarters. I’ve threatened to tear down the walls and just have one big penthouse for myself. He keeps reminding me that it’s his. The guy even has the place furnished—almost all of it. The bedrooms are empty, which gives him an excuse to stay at a hotel when he visits.

  Where is Clyde going to sleep? I’m not buying a fucking bed so he can be comfortable. That leech is already driving me crazy, and he’s not even here.

  I send Nate a text though, because why did he agree to lend that place without consulting me?

  Ford: WTF?

  Nate: Evening, Sunshine. As always, you’re in a good mood.

  Ford: Clyde is going to be staying next door. Why?

  Nate: I owed him.

  Ford: Now you owe me.

  Nate: Are you done with the prototype? It’s Friday. You said you would be done by Wednesday.

  I sigh, because this is why I was trying to avoid his calls and texts. Fucking Clyde is already messing with my life, and he’s not even here.

  Ford: Not yet. This requires precision. I’ll send you something tonight. He interrupted me. You better warn him to stay away from me while he is here.

  Nate: It’ll be like he’s not even there.

  Ford: Well, warn him that I need a quiet environment in order to work. If he keeps interrupting and wanting to hang out with me, nothing will get done.

  Nate: You should see a counselor. It might help with your issues—not all of them, but maybe a few.

  Ford: I’ll go after you do.

  Nate: Well, I guess we’re staying all fucked up then.

  I set the phone down and pinch the bridge of my nose as I try to refocus on my work. My family drives me crazy. Socializing with them should always be done in moderation. My stepmother is always asking about my love life. My father wants to know about my next big project. My sister in-law offers to be my agent if I ever want to be the face of the company. Her children are… I prefer to stay away from them.

  Well, more like I stay away from everyone—even at work. Listen, once I made it in the big leagues, I dealt with a handful of people who pretended to care about me because of my money. Being successful, rich, and famous comes at a high cost. You have to learn to read people to stay away from undesired attention. That’s why my brother is the face of our company. Nate is good at the game of use and be used, while still saving face.

  I’m sure Nate wants me to go to counseling just so he can drag me with him to Seattle or New York, and we could be a team. That’s never going to happen, though. I’m happy being the behind the scenes guy. Being famous and having my mug on magazines, websites, and social media is never going to happen. Those people who are posting selfies and showing the world what they do every single day nauseate me. Are they even real?

  Chapter Five

  To: P. Brassard

  From: S. Daniels

  Tuesday, May 26th

  Subject: New Contract

  * * *

  Dear Persy,

  Attached is the new contract so you and Nyx can review it. The publisher agreed to give you the extension for the book now titled, The Next Swipe of Your Life: Living, Dating, and Loving Yourself in This Century. If you’re thinking that name is too long, you have a chance to change it, once they receive your first ten chapters.

  Speaking of your manuscript … as long as you continue posting your progress on your social media, they won’t require any chapters until November. However, you have until June 30th of next year to deliver this book. They won’t push the publication date any farther or give you more time.

  They agreed to the new amount we demanded—thirty percent. However, they won’t give you an advance. I’m puzzled about this whole deal, but I’m proud of you. You made it happen without me. I have to remind you, though, that you can’t go rogue on me. We could have lost everything. You are worse than Marky.

  I can’t leave either one of you alone or you make a mess of things. Remember that you are the creative side of this operation, I’m the brains. By the way, you owe Clyde a bottle of your dad’s home crafted beer. He found you a place in downtown Denver, far enough from your parents, but close enough to your family. You can move in immediately, and you can stay there until June 30th of next year.

  Attached is the address, the codes to the underground garage, the main entrance, and the door. The keys are on the counter. You can send me the monthly rent, and I’ll pay it for you.

  Are you sure you don’t want to move to Los Angeles? I have a guest house, and I could use a free nanny.

&
nbsp; Sheila.

  P.S. Email me when you are back to civilization. I hope everyone survives the week. You can’t have access to electronics in jail, you might lose your followers—orange isn’t the new black. That’s a lie.

  To: S. Daniels

  From: P. Brassard

  Monday, June 1st

  Subject: We survived!

  It was another adventure with the Brassards. Unfortunately, Joshua… Or was it Jonathan? I can’t remember his name anymore. I’m talking about Callie’s latest boyfriend. He didn’t make it out alive. Kidding! He’s still among the living, but he broke up with her last Thursday and left. Eros teased the fuck out of Callie for the rest of the weekend—good times.

  It was her fault.

  Who brings a boyfriend to one of these trips? I never brought Ian, and we dated for two years.

  You can only take the Brassards in small doses. Not many can survive us. Maybe that’s why we are all single.

  Thank you for the place. You got me a penthouse!

  I’m grateful. Where is the leasing contract?

  Dad will send Clyde a case of beer, and for you, I’m sending you the latest couple’s toy. The product launched a couple of weeks ago.

  Would you mind reviewing it for me, please?

  I mean, it’s not like I can just hook up with a guy at some bar or the gym and ask him if we can try it. He’s going to think I’m kinky.

  Send my love to the family,

  Persy

  P.S. When you said it was furnished, maybe you could’ve added something like … but the bedrooms are empty. Thankfully, Dad and Eros took pity on me, and they agreed to help me move some of my stuff out of storage, but not until next Sunday. For now, I’m staying with my parents. Kill me now.