by Lila James
Before I could launch into my carefully rehearsed “I’m fine” speech, he had ushered me into his office, where he proceeded to treat me as if I were a survivor of some horrible plane crash.
“I’m perfectly fine, Jean,” I said, giving him a broad smile. “In fact, I’m better than fine. There’s so much I can catch up on now. I think I may even have time for some more assignments.”
But Jean didn’t look convinced. He leaned back in his chair, giving me a critical look.
“Darling, there’s toilet paper stuck to the back of your shoe. There’s also some of that garishly bright lipstick smeared onto your teeth. Were you crying this morning while you were getting ready?”
I glanced over at the sidewall, where Jean had a mirror. Lipstick was indeed visibly smeared onto my teeth. I rubbed furiously at my mouth, reaching down and yanking the toilet paper from my shoe.
“No, I was not crying, Jean. I told you. I’m fantastic. The breakup was mutual.”
“Leah told me you were running in a haphazard manner away from the church, right before the ceremony. I was in the church, sweetie. Everyone was wondering if you’d lost your mind.”
“It’s complicated,” I said, flushing with embarrassment. “Again, the breakup was mutual. I’m great. Fine.”
“Why are you smiling like that? Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Jean. I can’t emphasize enough how great I feel. I’m happy. People who smile are happy.”
“People who smile like you’re smiling are clinically insane.”
This was going to be more difficult that I had anticipated. Before I could retort, Nora, our features editor, poked her head into Jean’s office.
“Jean, I need to get these articles up and—Adrian! Oh my God. I can’t believe you’re already back at work!” she screeched.
“I’m perfectly fine,” I started, but before I could launch into my prepared speech, Nora rushed into Jean’s office and hugged me. She patted my back as if she were comforting a hysterically sobbing child.
“This too shall soon pass, Adrian. This too shall pass. You know, there’s an old proverb that says—”
“Is that Adrian Lexley? What are you doing back so soon? You poor thing!” Leah, the tattle, another one of our feature writers, shouted as she hurried into Jean’s office.
“I’m having a private conversation with Adrian,” Jean interrupted. “Will you please give us some privacy?”
“All right. But we’ll be right outside, Adrian,” Leah cooed.
“And we are taking you to lunch. Our treat,” Nora added, reluctantly heading to the door.
“That won’t be necessary. I’m fine,” I insisted.
“Of course you are, Adrian. Of course you are,” Leah replied, with infuriating compassion.
“Out,” Jean said.
Giving me more sympathetic looks, Leah and Nora finally scampered out. I watched their departure with annoyance. Ironically, I had thought that Leah and Nora were the most down-to-earth staffers at the magazine, and they were good acquaintances of mine. I thought it was a good idea to have them at the “wedding.” Man, was I regretting that decision now.
“I may have to take a vacation to get away from those two,” I muttered but kept my “I’m fine” smile pinned on my face.
“Please stop smiling, Adrian. It looks painful. I’m your friend. You can be honest with me,” Jean said, leaning forward in his chair.
“I am being honest with you,” I lied as earnestly as I possibly could. “I am totally fine. Over it. Moved on. Euphoric! Happier than I’ve ever been.”
“Enough, enough. You’ve always been a terrible liar, Adrian. When you’re ready to talk, I’m here.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’m fine.”
“The lady doth protest too much,” Jean said, reaching across his desk for some folders.
“Again, I’m completely available for any open assignments.”
“There is actually something I can use your help on,” Jean said, flipping through a folder. “Leah’s behind on a couple of her features. There’s a profile piece I want done on this best-selling author. He wrote a self-help book about dating.”
“I can do it,” I said eagerly. A little too eagerly. Jean gave me a look for a long moment before handing me the folder.
“His name’s Jackson Taylor. His book is called The One. I assume you’ve heard of it? It’s been a surprise best seller, still steadily moving up on all the lists. I’ll get you a copy of the book later today. All his contact info is in that folder. You know what I’m looking for; you’ve done author profiles before. An interview, a little about his background, his book, what he’s working on next.”
“I’ll get right on it.”
“Adrian,” Jean began, just as I reached his door. But I already knew what was coming, and I’d had it.
“For the last time, Jean. I am fine. I wasn’t aware that my personal life was open for discussion in this office. It’s not. You’re a friend, and I am telling you the truth. Marcus and I decided to mutually part ways. I’ve moved on.”
“That’s not what I was going to say.”
“Oh,” I said, deflated.
“You still have lipstick on your teeth. You’ve smeared it on your cheek, in fact. And there’s also toilet paper on your other shoe.”
*
Back at Liz’s apartment later that day, I had all the info for my article on Jackson Taylor spread out over the couch, including his book, which I had yet to read. I was leaning over to grab a folder when I caught an unflattering view of my profile in Liz’s full-length mirror.
I stood, examining myself from all angles, noticing some unattractive bulges. The pizza and beer I had gorged on the other day had acted faster than I expected. I decided that another post-breakup thing to do was lose five to ten pounds. I heard keys in the lock and Liz entered.
“Want to join the gym with me?” I asked, looking up from the mirror. But I froze.
Liz looked miserable. Liz was one of those odd people who were always perky, bright, and happy. So her looking miserable was quite jarring. Dried tears stained her cheeks, and she was clutching a small pint of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream. I knew that a combination of tears and ice cream could only mean one thing: guy problems.
“Liz, what’s wrong?”
“I really, really, really, really don’t want to talk about it,” Liz replied, plopping down onto the couch. She tore open the carton of ice cream and grabbed a spoon from the bag, offering me one. I shook my head.
“Liz, you know you can talk to me.”
“I don’t want to talk about it. How was your day?” Liz barked.
I stood there, watching as Liz massacred the ice cream with her spoon. I was genuinely too frightened to answer.
“Come on, Adrian. I want to know how your day went,” Liz practically shouted, glaring up at me.
“Everyone was of course overly sympathetic, which was annoying. Liz, I really can’t talk to you while you’re glaring at me like that.”
Liz turned her glare to her ice cream. She closed her eyes, her shoulders slumping.
“Sorry.”
I scrambled onto the couch next to her. Liz finally opened her eyes, turning to face me.
“Are you having problems with Stewart?”
Liz lowered her eyes. I frowned. This was not good. Liz and her boyfriend, Stewart, had been dating for four years, longer than Marcus and I had been together. They were one of those seemingly perfect couples who never fought and who meshed so well, it was borderline sickening. The thought of Liz and Stewart having problems made me wonder if what happened with me and Marcus was toxic, and our breakup would have some sort of a domino effect of disrupting perfectly healthy relationships all around us.
“Sort of. But I really don’t want to discuss this with you right now. I’m sorry,” Liz said. “I think I’m going to take a nap. I’m beat.”
“Come on. You can tell me what’s going on.”
&nbs
p; “It’s fine. I’m fine,” Liz said, disappearing into her bedroom.
I sank back down onto the couch. What did she mean by not wanting to discuss it with me? Maybe it did have something to do with Marcus and me. I stayed out in the living room until later that night, hoping Liz would come back out, but she never did. I even hung outside her bedroom door for a bit, trying to figure out a comforting thing to say.
I was midway through mentally creating an amusing monologue to cheer her up when a creature dressed in a plastic black thing with green plugs for eyes emerged from Liz’s room. I screamed, stumbling back. The creature screamed as well.
“Adrian! Jesus!” the creature shouted, removing its eyeballs to reveal Liz’s frightened brown ones.
“Liz,” I said, relieved, even though my heart was still in my throat. “You scared me half to death! You look like a creature! What the hell are you wearing?”
I took a step back, taking in Liz’s getup. She was decked out in a weird black plastic thing that looked like something halfway between a vampire cape and a scuba-diving suit. It really was a baffling outfit. Her hair was slicked back from her head, also covered by the odd black getup, and she had cucumbers on her eyes. Weird.
“It’s this beauty thing I do every once in a while. It exfoliates your skin,” Liz said, blushing. “And what were you doing standing outside my door, mumbling to yourself?”
“I was mumbling to myself?”
“Yes. I worry about you sometimes. What are you doing out here?”
“I just wanted you to know that I’m always here for you, no matter what I’m going through.”
“I know,” Liz said, moving past me to head toward the bathroom. “There’s nothing to discuss.”
“But I wanted to tell you I’m here for you.”
“Good night.”
Liz went into the bathroom, firmly closing the door behind her. I decided that I would be patient and understanding. Liz could tell me what was bothering her when she was ready.
Please. Who was I kidding? I knew that I was going to continue to hound her until she cracked. With that thought, I headed to my room and drifted off to sleep while trying not to think about Marcus. (But I did, of course, followed by a bizarre dream in which I was chased down the street by my angry wedding dress—which was a surprisingly terrifying dream.)
*
“I officially left notice. You said you didn’t want the apartment either, so I put both our names on the letter to the landlord. I’ve already moved most of the furniture out. I’m coming back on Saturday for the rest,” Marcus said.
I clutched my cell phone to my ear, my heart racing. I had gotten up early to do some prep work for the Jackson Taylor profile while simultaneously keeping watch for Liz to emerge from her bedroom. (I was really hoping she wasn’t still in that bizarre creature suit.) My thoughts had inevitably begun to drift toward Marcus when my cell phone shrilled with an ominous yet intriguing “Private” caller ID flashing on the screen. I assumed it was my mother, and since I felt guilty for shouting at her and Dad the last time I saw them, I answered right away, only to be greeted by Marcus’s cold voice.
“Adrian? Are you there?” Marcus asked.
“Yes,” I whispered, instantly cursing myself. I didn’t want to respond to Marcus’s question with a whisper. It showed weakness and vulnerability.
“I think you should keep the apartment,” I insisted, raising my voice to what I hoped would be an acceptable level, but instead I just sounded high pitched and shrill.
“What?”
“I said you should keep the apartment,” I said, lowering my voice to an audible level.
“We’ve been through this, Adrian.”
“I’m telling you to keep the apartment. I’ll move out.”
“And I told you. I don’t want the damn apartment!”
“You’re shouting!”
I knew my statement was antagonistic, and I had previously advised myself to avoid getting into post-breakup arguments, but there was no way in hell I was letting him use that tone of voice with me after he jilted me at the altar.
“I’m not shouting. My voice may be raised a little, but I’m not shouting.”
“Raising your voice is the definition of shouting!”
“Now you’re shouting. And your voice was weird a couple of seconds ago. What the hell was that? Trying to make your voice sound like a human dog whistle?”
“Oh, that’s just petty. But so like you to turn this around. You’re the one who jilted me, remember?”
“Adrian, you didn’t want to get married, either!”
“Will you stop saying that? Stop trying to make yourself feel better by convincing yourself that I didn’t want to get married.”
“I don’t need to convince myself of anything! This call was just to sort things out!”
“Sort things out? What is this, a divorce? Divorces have to take place after marriages!”
“Adrian, for God’s sake!”
“Stop shouting!”
Liz emerged from her room, her eyebrows raised quizzically. I just shook my head, turning away.
“Look, it’s obvious we can’t talk to each other anymore,” Marcus said slowly, as if he were talking to a child. “If there’s anything else, you can just have Liz relay any messages and I’ll have Gerry relay any to you, OK? I’m done.”
And before I could bite out a harsh response, Marcus did the one and only thing you can do to win an over-the-phone argument. He hung up on me.
Liz came over and sat next to me, saying nothing. She simply put her hand on my shoulder. I gave her a grateful smile.
Marcus was right about one thing: we couldn’t talk to each other anymore. There was too much anger. Too much bitterness. We’d just have to let some time pass. Or worse yet … not talk to each other at all.
CHAPTER FOUR
It’s Raining Couples
I made an irritating observation as I headed to Jackson Taylor’s office to interview him for my profile piece on a rainy Wednesday morning: couples seem to pop up in multitudes following a breakup. It now seemed as if there were couples everywhere I went. The grocery store, the drug store, the streets, the cabs, rooftops. It was as if the world had found love and everyone wanted to shove it in my broken-hearted face. And as if their mere presence wasn’t enough, they were also engaged in public displays of affection such as holding hands, embracing, kissing, and shouting, “I love you.” Like there wasn’t enough misery in the world. It was truly sickening.
I crossed the street as I struggled with my umbrella. It had decided to flip inside out in the windy rain, and I was getting soaked. I watched with gritted teeth as a man next to me shielded his girlfriend with his coat as they hurried past me.
I was already in a bad mood, and the sudden plethora of happily-in-love couples only made my mood worse. Everyone and their mother seemed to have a happy relationship. On the corner of Broadway and Tenth, I stopped in my tracks: literally, everyone and their mother was in a relationship. Because there was my mother in a tiny French bistro across the street, holding hands with some guy young enough to be her son.
I hurried across the street to get a better look. I held my useless umbrella in front of me as a shield, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. I positioned myself by the window of the restaurant. Yes, it was definitely my mother. And her date was very young; he couldn’t have been more than twenty-two or twenty-three. He’d apparently just said something hilarious because my mother tossed her head back, laughing in a brazenly flirtatious manner. Still clutching my mother’s hands, the Lothario leaned in and kissed her.
I turned away, not wanting to see any more. Gross. I couldn’t decide which bugged me more: the fact that my mother was dating someone she hadn’t even mentioned to me, the fact that she was dating a zygote, or the fact that she was one of the myriad of couples that had popped up around New York. All three, I decided as I shoved past yet another couple who parked themselves outside the bistro to gaze into ea
ch other’s eyes.
Now I was especially grateful that Jean had given me the assignment on Jackson Taylor; it kept my mind off the identity of the fetus who was dating my mother and the harshness in Marcus’s voice the last time we spoke. OK, no it didn’t—but at least I had something else to attempt to focus on.
I arrived at Jackson Taylor’s office about ten minutes after witnessing Mom’s transgression with the young Lothario, and I carefully looked over the notes I’d prepared for my interview as I waited. I had read his book the previous night and frankly, I wasn’t impressed. Basically the whole book condescendingly told men things they probably already knew. For example, the best place to meet women is not in bars but through mutual friends and family. Or how it’s not acceptable, under any circumstances, to stay with a woman who cheats. How his book became a best seller was beyond me. But I forced myself to find some minor things about the book I liked, as I was happy to have something to keep my mind occupied.
Content with my notes, I got to my feet, looking around. Jackson’s office was actually a large study in an impressive Fifth Avenue brownstone. The office was sparsely furnished, with just a mahogany desk and two massive bookcases stuffed to the gills with show-off books such as Moby Dick and As I Lay Dying. I just knew there was a Maxim and a Playboy lying around somewhere.
I stopped at a row of photo frames on one of his bookshelves. Despite calling his book the Bible for the antiplayer, Jackson himself seemed to be quite the ladies’ man. Nearly every photograph showed him posing with various women. I took out my phone, deciding to record some observations to stave off my growing boredom.
“Jackson Taylor keeps many photographs of himself with women, who I suspect are models. Obviously, he’s an egocentric who’s letting his fifteen minutes of fame get to his head,” I said, pausing by a copy of Shakespeare’s Greatest Works, rolling my eyes. “Subject also keeps a series of show-off books. No one seriously reads all the books you’re supposed to read. I suspect he has a hidden stash of Playboys tucked away somewhere in this overly elaborate office.”