by Lucy Lambert
Just take it for what it probably means. He doesn’t want to see you. He doesn’t want to speak with you. Move on with your life.
It sounded like the right thing. It just didn’t feel that way. There was no sense of closure.
But is there ever? Or is that just in stories?
I looked out at, as that classic rock song my dad liked went, the bright lights, big city and wondered where Neil was at that moment. What was he doing? Was he with anyone?
Except that hurt to think about, so I stopped. Or tried to, at least.
Chapter 20
NEIL
For the 100th time, I deleted my latest message to Rachel.
The glow of my iPhone screen spilled out over my bare chest. I lay on top of my bed covers, too warm to crawl in beneath them.
The place was dark and empty, the darkness a negative space around me.
I wanted to text her. No, I wanted to call her, to hear her voice.
I knew that she blocked me on her phone. I’d tried texting her that same night that awful friend of hers slammed the door in my face and the message bounced back to me, undeliverable.
That was easy enough to circumvent, though. I didn’t even need a new phone, there were so many apps out there that gave you a whole new phone number for a few bucks a month.
But I didn’t call. I didn’t text. Why? Because I thought that she wanted her space.
Still, I typed out these damned messages. I composed voicemails in my head, or thought of different ways to answer if she actually picked up.
Because I wanted her back. We hadn’t known each other all that long, comparatively. It was just over a month now.
But it was the best month in my memory. Days and nights spent together.
“Why didn’t I just come out and tell her?” I muttered, “I should have told her.”
So much for being a man of action. For not putting things off.
I brought up her last message to me. The one that read I know everything.
“Damn it!” I said.
I whipped my prototype iPhone, my gift from Apple, into the darkness. It hit the wall. I didn’t see, but I heard something shatter. Then another sharp crack when the aluminum case hit the floor.
THAT MONDAY AT THE office, a new iPhone (one from the store this time) in my pocket, I fired Gigi.
Because even though she hadn’t come out and said she had told Rachel, I knew. And I wanted her to pay for that. I wanted her to hurt. In fact, I couldn’t wait to see the shocked look on her perfect face.
I saw her every day at the office, of course. And each day I saw how smug and happy she was, thinking that she’d gotten away with it.
I let that sink in. Let her think herself safe. Because that was when a person was weakest, when they thought themselves safest.
I paced once around my office, looking out at the Manhattan skyline. It maddened me to think that Rachel also sat in her cubicle at work just a few blocks away. A building I knew. That I could walk there in 15 minutes and see her.
But that I couldn’t, lest I hurt her more and again.
I went to my desk and stabbed at the intercom button. “Gigi, I need to see you.”
“Coming, Mr. Telford,” she replied.
I went and stood by the window again, looking out at the top of the Chrysler Building. I hooked my thumbs into the pockets of my slacks.
Behind me, I heard the door open then close. “Mr. Telford, Neil.”
“Gigi,” I said. I didn’t turn around. I didn’t say anything else. Sometimes silence was the best weapon. People dug their own graves if you fed them enough silence.
“Is there something you need help with?” she asked. “Something I can do for you?”
Still nothing. Part of me wanted to turn around and lay into her. Tell her that I knew that she was the one who told Rachel before I could. I didn’t.
“Neil? I know you and that girl split. You know if there’s anything I can do to ease the hurt, I will. Anything.”
I did not so much hear as sense her come up behind me. The air, stirred by her movements, smelled of her perfume. The scent turned my stomach.
She put her hands on my shoulders. “Anything at all.”
Her hands slid down my arms, coming to rest over my hands. I pulled them from my pockets. Then I turned, holding her hands in mine, to face her.
“Gigi,” I said. I looked at her. She was beautiful. Gorgeous, stunning. But a statue could also be beautiful.
And like some Grecian marble statue, she was cold.
“Neil,” she said. Her eyes flicked down to my lips and then back up again. She licked her own full, plump, smooth lips in anticipation.
I could see it in her eyes. Green eyes, like a river reflecting the leaves of trees in summer. See that triumph in them. That thought that she knew she won. I was the prize, of course.
I leaned in closer. Those lovely green eyes of hers started hooding. I heard the breath catch in her throat.
“You’re fired, Gigi,” I breathed.
Three words, the same number as the final text from Rachel.
I dropped her hands and stepped back.
At first she just stood there as though she didn’t hear me. Her eyes half hooded, her lips puckered slightly.
Then it hit her. Her eyes shot open. She crossed her arms. Then her eyes narrowed again, sharpening.
“What?” she said.
“I know you’re not deaf, Gigi. I also know that you got to Rachel. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” I replied.
She shook her head like an unruly filly, her long blonde man shifting around on her shoulders. “Only what you should have done first: told her the truth.”
I knew that wasn’t it. I knew Gigi. I knew that, like a pampered house cat, she liked to torture anything she got her claws into before delivering the killing blow.
I closed the space between us. Her eyes widened again, and she took half a step back before finding her backbone again.
“Not just the truth, whatever that means,” I said, “What else did you tell her? I know that’s not it.”
She shrugged, suddenly unable to keep eye contact with me. She looked down between us and hugged herself tighter. “Other things she needed to hear.”
My hands balled into fists hard enough that my knuckles cracked and my fingertips dug into my palms. “Tell me what you said, Gigi!”
She glanced up at me, then back down again. Nervously, she unclutched herself and ran one hand’s fingers through her hair. “Just more true things. That she’s not your type, which I mean, come on, Neil, she isn’t!”
There was more I knew it. I also knew I wasn’t going to like it. But I needed to hear it. Just because something was hard to learn didn’t mean you shouldn’t learn it. Usually the opposite, in my experience.
“What else? Tell me now, Gigi.”
That look of defiance with which I was already familiar reappeared on her face. She looked up at me. “I told her that you’re afraid she’s a gold digger. That she’s nothing but your dirty little secret.”
I closed my eyes, blocking her from my vision. Even so, I saw red. It pulsed to the beat of my heart. I needed to center myself, to find some moment or point of serenity.
When I opened my eyes again I saw that Gigi stood another step away from me.
She’s afraid. Good.
“Why, Gigi?”
She tossed her hair in that little defiant, headstrong way again. “Because you’re mine, of course. And also it was the truth. She is your dirty little secret. If you liked her so much why didn’t you introduce her? Why weren’t you seen with her? You should have seen the look on her face when she understood. What, Neil, not used to rejection?”
I think the thing that cut deepest was the realization that there was truth to what she said.
My God, is that it? Was she my dirty little secret? Why didn’t I tell her everything right away?
I shook my head. At that moment, I realized there wasn’t a bigg
er fool in New York City. Not in any of the five boroughs.
I couldn’t speak with Gigi anymore. I couldn’t see her anymore. Through gritted teeth, I said, “You’re still fired, Gigi. Get out of my sight. Oh, and if I can help it you’re not going to work in New York again. Not if I can help it. And I don’t care who your father is.”
She half smiled, as though I were joking. Then she saw the truth in my eyes and the smile dropped away. Her face blanched, giving her even more of that statuesque look.
“Neil! You can’t!”
“I just did. I’m sure it would give me great pleasure to watch security haul you out of here, so if you don’t want that to happen you better be out of my office before I can reach my phone.”
“You’re joking. You wouldn’t,” she said.
I started for my desk.
“Neil! You can’t! Do you have any idea how angry my dad will be?”
I didn’t say anything else to her. I reached my desk. I reached out and plucked the glossy black receiver from my phone. The extension for security was 9999. Easy to remember in emergencies. I hit the 9 key once, twice.
“You’re such an asshole, Neil!”
Then she whirled around and ran for the door. Which she slammed behind her.
“I’ve been called worse by better,” I said, hanging up the receiver.
Gigi’s father owned a lot of stock in the company. Not as much as I did, true. But enough to make things more than difficult in the boardroom. And I was sure that when Gigi ran crying to him he would.
I didn’t care. In fact, I welcomed the opportunity to really sink my teeth into some big conflict. Anything that might take my mind off Rachel.
I sank into my chair. It was an Yves Saint Laurent and I knew for a fact that it cost in excess of $10,000. Eminently comfortable and ergonomic. A piece of furniture that was also art. Something that anyone in the know would recognize and appreciate instantly.
Yet it granted me no comfort. I had the urge to pick it up and hurl it against the wall until it was worthless detritus at my feet.
I wanted to fix this. I wanted to fix everything. The problem was, for the first time in my life I didn’t know what to do.
Because in spite of Gigi I knew this was a grave I’d dug for myself. She’d only helped to start lowering the casket.
If Rachel was my secret I didn’t want her to be anymore. If she wasn’t my old type then that was good. I’d never liked my old type much anyway.
I liked her so much in part because she wasn’t a part of this fake life you lived at this level. The parties and the galas and the fundraisers where everyone smiled and joked and shook hands in public but wouldn’t hesitate to bury the knife in your back at the next opportunity. Service with a smile.
But I was ready for her to see all that now, if she wanted.
If it wasn’t too late.
“But what in the hell do I do?”
I didn’t have the answer.
Chapter 21
RACHEL
My friends all said that I needed some of the hair of the dog that bit me. By that, they meant another guy. More dates.
I insisted that what I actually needed was more uninterrupted time at work and then copious amounts of ice cream at home with some Netflix.
That was definitely the way I’d rather spend the precious few hours I got at home.
But they won. They usually did. I wasn’t one of those people able to resist peer pressure for very long.
“So... I’m sorry, what was your name again?” I said.
“Jeff,” he said.
I don’t know how they did it, but Suzy, Sharon, and Lindsay had found me not one, but three guys to go out with over the last couple of weeks.
The first two had been rather disastrous. The first guy, Myron, had taken me bowling. It started out as fun, but then got weird.
Why?
Because I started beating him. I wasn’t that good at bowling. A spare or two was all I could ever manage. He was worse. And what made it worse? Him thinking he was much better than he was.
Then, mostly jokingly, I suggested I get the manager to put the rails up. No more gutter balls, everyone’s a winner, everyone has fun. Right?
Wrong.
He refused. Then he blamed me for psyching him out when he put literally every throw after that in the gutter.
When we finished the night he said to me, “It’s no wonder you’re single.” Then he left without even a firm and businesslike handshake.
He was a brother of one of Sharon’s work friends. And I got the feeling I knew why he was still single, too.
So far Jeff seemed nice, though. He met me at my train station. He took me down close to the Village. There was some new bar or something he wanted to try, and I agreed.
“So... What is it you do?” I said.
Jeff was cute, I had to give him that. A bit more hipster than I normally went for, but maybe that was a good thing. He wore a grey vest with a button-down shirt on underneath, the sleeves rolled up past his elbows like he was some old time cardsharp.
He kept his stubble carefully manicured, and his hair was perfectly tousled in a way that made me wonder if he’d taken more time to prepare for this date in front of the mirror than I had.
Still, this promised to be better than not only that first disaster of a date but also the second.
“I’m a mixologist,” he said. He said it as though I should find it impressive.
I might have, if I had any clue what he meant. And he also said it as though I should know. As though if I let it slip that I didn’t he might think me a little bit dull.
Hey, at least he’s cute!
Cute could get you pretty far in this world, if you played your cards right.
“Yeah,” he continued, “I don’t mean to brag or anything. But I came up with the Hollywood Hooker.”
I almost stopped there in the street, the name was so bizarre. “Oh?”
Still not as bad as that second date. Or the first. So far.
“Yeah, it’s basically a dry gin martini but with tomato juice and a bit of basil on top for garnish. Shh, don’t tell anyone,” he said. I must also add that he said it with a conspiratorial wink, as though he revealed that he wrote all of Ed Sheeran’s songs or something.
Then it hit me, “Oh, a bartender.”
Also, that drink sounded vile. Not that I was much of a martini girl in the first place. But with tomato juice and basil? Eww!
This time Jeff did stop. His lips pressed into a thin line, almost disappearing in his well-manicured stubble. “No, not a bartender. That’s a job. What I do is a life, okay?”
He reached out and took one of my hands. He didn’t exactly squeeze hard, but when I tried removing it he held on.
“That’s interesting, really,” I said. He’s cute. Just remember how cute he is. And holding hands isn’t so bad, is it? “So we’re going to, like, check out the competition at this new place, then?”
We kept walking.
“Yeah, right,” Jeff said, “Pff, the team they have at this place can barely draw a beer without it being half head. No, my buddy’s band is playing there tonight. You’ll like them. They’re this mix of screamo, black metal, and like Early 2000s pop, but good.”
I cringed on the inside. And maybe the outside a little. But Jeff was too busy talking about this horror show of a band to notice.
I tried to think on the positive side: Isn’t it nice that he wants to support his friends? He probably thinks they’re terrible, too. But that’s what friends are for, right?
Also: Still not as bad as that second one. And hey, maybe I’ll like it. Can’t knock it till you’ve tried it, right?
I felt as though I probably could knock it without trying it and not come too far from the mark in the end.
But already in the back of my head I started thinking of ways to get out of this. Office emergency, family emergency, oops I left the oven on I think emergency...
“Yeah, we’re just
a couple blocks away. Don’t you just love walking? I love how walkable the city is,” Jeff said.
I’d offered to go Dutch on a cab with him to this place from the subway, but he declined. Even though we had to go a good 12 blocks. I guess this was how he managed to fit into those skinny jeans. I wasn’t certain I could fit in them.
For that matter, I wasn’t certain they were actually men’s jeans that he wore.
That second date came courtesy of Lindsay. They worked in the same office, but different departments.
“You’ll love him, Rach,” Lindsay said, “He’s funny! So funny!”
She remained cagey on any other aspect of this guy, physical or otherwise.
I met Mr. Funny in Times Square, at his suggestion. At the Hard Rock Café. He was 10 minutes late when his cab pulled up. And I guess Lindsay showed him my picture or something because when he got out of the taxi he waved me over.
“Can you spot me $15? Actually, better make it $20. This guy deserves a good tip!”
I wanted to end it right then and there. Nip it in the bud before it started. But I also didn’t want to make things awkward at work for Lindsay. I’m a human doormat, apparently.
I dug a $20 out of my wallet and handed it over to the driver, who was giving my date a funny look.
“What?” Mr. Funny said, “I’m buying dinner. This is my way of going Dutch!”
It was a B plot line from Seinfeld or something. I almost looked for rolling cameras. Almost.
Being dinnertime on a busy night, I thought he would have made a reservation. He didn’t. When we got to the hostess he kept muttering about the power of two! And how that always got him a table on all his other dates right away.
A mean part of me wanted to say that going to dinner with your mom didn’t count as a date, but I bit my tongue.
We then waited for 45 minutes in the lobby for a table when he insisted on staying.
There I learned he was 41 and that yes, he did indeed live with his mother. To save on rent money in the city. He had the second largest collection of unopened Frosted Flakes boxes in the world. I kid you not.
Then I also noticed a rather large red what I thought was ketchup stain on his white office shirt. Which also had a pocket protector.