Bad Boy Boxset

by JD Hawkins

  “Oh, come on!” Jim says, flicking through more. “These are great!”

  I frown. “They’re really not. This one makes it look like the drink was Photoshopped into the picture—in fact,” I say, leaning to get a closer look, “I think it is.”

  “It’s good enough,” Jim says, almost defiant now. “Fact is, the way you’re making our social media explode, we can’t just have one photographer. We need more.”

  “Quantity isn’t a substitute for quality. These photos aren’t even saying anything about the drink. They’re not fun, and the messaging is basically nonexistent.”

  Jim folds his arms now, looking like I just spat in his coffee.

  “Why pay to have a photographer on staff when I can hire as many as I like for free? It’s just bad business. Do you know how much Melina’s getting paid?”

  “Whatever it is, it’s not enough,” I say firmly. “And bad business is trying to cut corners on something as important as social media outreach. This is how we speak to our demographic, engage with them. Get them excited about our product.”

  Jim unfolds his arms and smiles suddenly, as if about to give me the good cop side.

  “I get it,” he says. “You and Melina have become friends since you started working here—that’s great. I’ve seen how close you two are. It’s really great for morale, but—”

  I groan and turn away to start pacing, the frustrations of the day building up. If I don’t move my muscles I’m going to explode.

  “But,” Jim continues, “we’re not exactly killing it in the sales department, and we’ve yet to see anything come of this social media stuff. So I need to think about streamlining.”

  “You said you’d give us a month. It’s been days and already the social media’s blowing up, Melina’s getting us coverage on some of the blogs, we have influencers asking if we’ll send them free samples—we’re really starting to differentiate ourselves from the competition.”

  Jim sighs and looks at me almost cautiously, as if anticipating my reaction.

  “You’ve done great work so far, I’ll be the first to acknowledge it, but I’ve made up my mind,” he says, leaving a long pause. “You’ve still got the rest of the month, and we’ll see how this ‘Divinity Challenge’ stuff plays out—but at the end of it, I’m letting Melina go.”

  “You’ve got to be joking,” I reply, raising my voice and then lowering it when I realize somebody might hear outside. “She’s getting results. She’s doing exactly what you demanded of her and your response is to let her go?”

  Even in the red mist I can see Melina’s face if she hears about this. Her first crappy job out of college and she’s getting fired from it—it’ll devastate her. It’s devastating me.

  “It’s nothing personal,” Jim says, shrugging nonchalantly, as if we’re talking about changes to the lunch menu and not firing one of his only valuable employees.

  “Look,” I say, stepping toward him and pointing.

  I’m ready to give him both barrels, ready to tell him where he can stick his interns, my consulting contract, and his whole damn company. But then I sigh, and drop the finger like a holstered weapon.

  If it was just my job on the line I’d easily pack it all in for the chance to tell Jim exactly what I think, in language as colorful and violent as a rap verse, but it’s not just about me now. It’s Melina too. If there’s any way out of this for her, I need to preserve it. Not only that, but the green light to open up a west coast office for Greene Consultants hinges on my success here at Divinity—and I’m starting to like the idea of staying in L.A. more and more.

  Jim sees the change in my expression and moves back behind his desk.

  “I’m going to call her in now and tell her,” he says.

  “Wait,” I say, stepping toward the desk. “Let me tell her.”

  He eyes me for a second.

  “You’re an outside contractor—you can’t—”

  “Let me do it,” I repeat. Jim looks at me almost suspiciously, so I say, “She’ll take it better coming from me—and she still has a lot of photos we can use. You don’t want to piss her off and lose all that work she’s been doing, right? Trust me on this. It’s the right move.”

  Jim considers it, then nods.

  I leave before he can second-guess his decision.

  When I get back to my office, Melina’s not there. I grab my phone and call her but it rings through to voicemail. I pace around the room feeling like a wounded beast, ready to lash out at anything, filled with a tense energy I can’t get rid of.

  I have a sudden urge to go rock-climbing—understanding now why Melina uses it to blow off steam. I want to sit down with her and crack a few jokes, or pull her close and let the magic of her skin relieve all this knotted tension inside. It’s only now that I have no idea where she is that I suddenly realize how much I’m starting to need her.

  I fudge my way through the remainder of the work day, focusing on the most boring, mundane tasks in an attempt to calm the wild waves of frustration inside. Eventually, I break off early, packing up my laptop and leaving although the cloud of confused anger follows me.

  Outside in the parking lot I take my phone out to call Melina again and try to figure out what the hell is going on with her, but instead I see a calendar appointment I must have missed during all that self-absorbed irritation.

  Dinner with my mom.

  “Shit,” I mutter to myself, making for my car.

  I was supposed to be there five minutes ago, and my mom is not the kind of person happy to wait around. I sweat my way through traffic and get there as fast I can.

  The café is one of my mom’s favorites, a small place on a corner of Sunset Boulevard with mismatched vintage furniture and menu that’s half in French, where you can smell the spiced aromatic blends from a block away. Just walking past is enough to wake you up, and since my mom’s both a coffee addict and a croissant connoisseur, it’s a haven for her.

  When I get there, she’s in her favorite spot by the window, seated so she can people-watch down the busy street. She gives me a wave through the glass as I arrive and I shrug apologetically as I go around to the entrance.

  “Hey Mom,” I say, as she gets up to give me a kiss.

  “Hi sweetie,” she replies, immediately noticing something’s off when I take a seat. “Is everything ok? You look peaked.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say. “Just had a pretty tough day at work.”

  She breaks out a wide, mischievous smile.

  “Well, I’ve got something that’ll cheer you right up.”

  “Oh yeah? I hope it’s not an escargot appetizer,” I joke.

  “In fact, it’s—oh! Here she is now.”

  My mom waves and smiles at someone behind me, back by the door. I frown for a second and then turn around to see.

  The woman is tall, demure in her business pants, blouse fitted over her athletic build. Long, glossy blonde hair tumbling down her shoulders, makeup expertly applied.

  She smiles back at us and waves daintily with her fingers, extending those long legs a little further to stride eagerly inside the café.

  Before I can ask what the hell is going on, she’s inside and we’re getting up to greet her. My mom gives her a warm hug and then stands back so I can shake her hand, still looking at her in confusion and trying not to suffocate in the cloud of floral perfume.

  “This is Wyatt,” my mom says proudly, “my beautiful boy. Wyatt: This is Rachel.”

  “Nice to meet you?” I say, feeling like I’m losing my mind behind my polite smile.

  “Nice to meet you, too,” she says, squeezing my hand as she locks eyes with me so intently it sends a feeling of dread straight through me. Something’s up, and it seems like I’m the only one who doesn’t know what it is.

  “Please. Sit down,” Mom says to Rachel, offering her a seat and plucking her own handbag up off the table. Then she turns to me, giving me a little wink while Rachel’s not looking. “Well, have fun. I’ll
catch up with you tomorrow.”

  I stand there for a second as Rachel gazes up at me eagerly and my mom leaves.

  “Hold on just one second,” I say to Rachel, then rush off to catch my mom at the door. “Mom! Hey—what the hell is all this about? Who is that?”

  She turns and looks at me, slightly startled, as if completely confused that I might possibly have an issue with this.

  “That’s Rachel. She’s very pretty, isn’t she?” she says, glancing back at the table where Rachel is now ordering a coffee from the waiter. “Sabine and Marsha approved her too, of course! She’s fit, stable in her career, loves to travel. She’s perfect for you.”

  “Wait, this is…” It finally hits me. “You set me up on a blind date? Really?”

  Mom smiles at me affectionately, smoothing down a crease on my shirt.

  “I told you I would! I think it’ll be good for you to finally meet a nice girl. And all you do is work, work, work—so I figured you’ve probably been too busy to meet anyone. Oh, I know you liked to ‘play the field’ when you were in New York, but you’re back in California now—this is a fresh start. Maybe it’s time for something serious, hmm? Rachel’s really a wonderful girl—she’s a doctor, you know. And she plays tennis, and the violin.”

  She gives me a look, as if this woman’s personal resume is everything I’ve always secretly wanted—rather than the daughter-in-law that my mom has always secretly wanted.

  I shake my head slowly. “Look, Mom, I appreciate it and all, but there’s no way—”

  “Hush now, you’re just nervous. Be a good boy and go charm her.”

  Then she winks at me and bustles out the door.

  I stand there, stunned for a moment, before making my way back to the table, running through all the textbook excuses I usually use for blowing off women—though most of them only work the morning after.

  “Hey,” I say, taking my seat beside her. “Sorry about all of that.”

  “No problem,” she says, looking me up and down like she’s just won first prize in a raffle. “Is anything wrong?”

  I let out a helpless laugh. “I’m just, uh, a little surprised. I wasn’t expecting my mom to do this.”

  Rachel laughs too, reaching out to touch my forearm. “I feel a little guilty now.”

  I remove her hand, gentle but firm, and take a long drink from my water glass. “No. Don’t. It’s not your fault.”

  She smiles and seems to relax a little. She shifts in her seat, crossing those extravagant legs to the side, then leans forward to stir her coffee. I rarely find myself tongue-tied around women, but right now I wish I was anywhere else but here.

  My body feels like a flooded car engine, my instincts spluttering to start but going nowhere. I’ve been in this situation a million times, and a million times over it would end with her clothes on the floor and those legs around my neck—but right now all I want to do is get away from her. Right now, all I feel sitting here is an unbelievable wrongness.

  “So. How do you know my mom?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “I don’t, really. Elise works with my mom at the firm,” she says. “I guess moms like talking about the marital status of their kids and plotting their futures for them.”

  “I know mine does,” I say, still curious, “but to be honest, you don’t seem like the type who can’t find a guy.”

  Rachel smiles, taking my genuine confusion as pure flattery.

  “Sure—but finding a good one is the hard part. Are you a good one?”

  I feel something touch my leg and immediately flinch so hard I slam my knee on the underside of the table, spilling coffee. Her foot on my leg causing an almost physical repulsion.

  “Shit,” I say, grabbing napkins and mopping up the table while she looks at me blankly. “Sorry. Just…uh…caught me by surprise.”

  “Uh-huh,” she says, all the flirtatious edginess gone from her expression.

  I dump the messy napkins in the center of the table and wring the drops of coffee from my hand. “I think maybe some wires got crossed, someone got the wrong idea—”

  “Oh god,” she says, seeming to change entirely. She uncrosses her legs, rolls her eyes, and sits up straight, reaching for her bag.

  “Wait,” I say, hands out apologetically. “I’m sorry, it’s not you, I just—”

  “Stop,” she says, holding a palm up and taking a quick sip of coffee. “Don’t tell me. I get it. You’re in love with someone else. Or you’re not into women and your mom doesn’t know yet. Which is it?”

  “What? No! It’s nothing like that, it’s just—”

  “Come on,” she says, in full no-bullshit mode. “It’s one or the other. I can tell you’re feeling guilty about something. Or repressed. Or both. Your parents are separated, right?”

  I gape at her sudden frankness. “What are you, some kind of therapist?”

  “Actually…” she smiles. “I am. And I can see right through you. No offense.”

  I let out a sigh, feeling like I’m backed into a corner—but also feeling a strange sense of relief now that someone’s forcing me to talk about the exact thing I’ve been avoiding for the past few weeks.

  “I’m not in love with someone else,” I say, suddenly realizing how crazy it is that a woman I just met on a blind date is talking to me about something I can barely explain to myself. “I mean…I guess I am seeing someone. Not officially, exactly, but you know…”

  “And…why doesn’t your mom know about her?” Rachel asks, with the pointedness of an FBI interrogator. “You’re keeping it a secret?”

  I feel caught. “Sort of. It’s complicated. We’re—she’s my—”

  “Oh.” Rachel’s eyebrow shoots up and she smirks at me. “You’re in love with her.”

  “I don’t love her—I mean, I do…but it’s different. It’s like a friends with benefits thing, but more…but still just really good friends. I can’t explain it. We’ve known each other our whole lives. It’s not like my usual…thing.”

  Rachel looks at me with mild amusement, then shakes her head. “I almost feel bad for you, Wyatt. You’re in denial. But you’ll figure it out. Hopefully before she walks away over your fear of commitment.”

  “I’m not afraid of commitment,” I insist, “I’m just saying I’m not ‘in love.’ It’s too soon. I mean…isn’t it?” I look up and see that Rachel’s grin is full-on now.

  “You actually are adorable. It’s always the players who fall the hardest.”

  “I’m not falling for anyone.” I lean back in my chair and fold my arms. “It’s just a casual thing.”

  “Oh yeah? She on the same page as you about this?”

  “Sure…I mean, probably.”

  She snorts. “Come on, Wyatt. I see enough couples to know when boundaries haven’t been set. I’m guessing you haven’t had The Talk yet? Open communication is key in any relationship.”

  “We’re not—wait, you’re a couples therapist?”

  “Have you been upfront with her about how you feel, at least?”

  “I don’t even know how I feel,” I blurt out in the hurried strangeness of the conversation.

  Rachel says nothing, as if letting the words linger in the air, in my mind, batting them back at me. She drains her coffee almost victoriously, and I look down at the table—feeling like I’ve admitted something to myself rather than to her.

  “Professional opinion,” she says, getting up and pulling her wallet out of her bag, “I think you do know. Don’t make her wait forever.”

  “Hey,” I say, waving her wallet away, “I got this. Least I could do for the…whatever that just was. And thanks.”

  She grins and shakes my hand for the second time this evening. “Don’t mention it.”

  “Trust me, I won’t.”

  15

  Melina

  I feel like I’ve just had my heart smashed into a million pieces—but I’ve got nobody to blame but myself. Of course Wyatt just wanted some fun, of course it was never going t
o turn into anything serious. Of all people, I should have known more than anyone that Wyatt wouldn’t be interested in anything more serious than a fling, and yet there I went, letting myself get caught up and besotted before I even knew it was happening.

  Maybe I just didn’t want to know, maybe I didn’t ask myself what I was really feeling because I knew the answer wouldn’t be pretty. Maybe I knew all along this would end in a mess, but it felt too good to care about the future.

  But now the future’s here, and it sure feels like the worst mess I have ever gotten myself into.

  Wyatt messages me throughout the evening, and I send back bland but functional replies. It’s easy to pretend to be fine over text, but when you’ve known someone as long as Wyatt’s known me, you can tell when something’s up.

  He starts sending me terrible photos that he knows I’ll find irritatingly cliché—his hand holding an ice cream with the words ‘cool it’ drawn across it, a picture of him grimacing beneath so many filters it looks like he’s in a burning building, an image of him at his desk looking thoughtful and sexy with the caption ‘accidentally dropped my phone and it took this picture.’ So that even over text I find myself laughing a little, warming up to him again, opening a door for him to come back inside.

  When he knows he’s got me back on the hook he suggests going out for dinner, and insinuates that we need to talk. My heart sinks all over again.

  Here it comes: The big exit. Christ, it’s going to be painful, having Wyatt let me down gently and tell me we should go back to being ‘just friends.’ I’m sure he’ll be incredibly charming and cool about it—god knows he’s had enough practice—but it won’t change the fact that something inside of me still doesn’t want this to stop. The little girl who crushed so badly on Wyatt as a kid, and then even worse throughout her teens, never really went away…and the way I feel now, she won’t be going away anytime soon, either.