by Lila James
Perched on the top shelf of the closet were a dozen framed photographs. Some of just me, others with Marcus and me. A Post-it had been stuck to one of them, which read:
Not sure what to do with these, you can have them if you want. Best, M.
I slowly reached for one of the photos taken of Marcus and me in Vermont a year prior. We had been waiting for a ski lift, and one of Marcus’s friends had taken a quick picture of us. Marcus had his arms wrapped around me, a loving kiss pressed to my cheek, and I was laughing. You never realize in that split second you take the photo that perhaps the bliss you’re feeling in that moment won’t last forever.
“Oh, Adrian,” Liz said as she approached me, her gaze following mine to look at the assortment of photos. But in the few seconds I had between reading the note and Liz’s approach, my emotions had gone from nostalgic sadness to indignant anger.
“‘Best’!”
“What?”
“He wrote best—Marcus. ‘Here are all of our memories as a couple, you can shove them down the toilet if you want; obviously I don’t give a damn. Best, Marcus.’” I growled, glaring at the innocuous Post-it. “And he used a crappy old Post-it. A reused one. Would it have killed him to use a clean sheet of paper to stab me in the heart yet again? And what’s ‘best’? I would have at least settled for a sincerely. I mean, total strangers get sincerely. Even angry letters I get from the American Express collections department end with ‘sincerely’!”
“Adrian, calm down.”
“I’ll show him what I’ll do with the stupid, useless photographs!” I shouted. I grabbed as many of the framed photographs as I could with one hand. Liz looked terrified. I knew she was regretting her “you’re handling this really well” speech she had uttered just moments earlier.
“Adrian!”
“Out of my way, Liz,” I demanded, moving past her, heading right toward the window. With incredible strength I didn’t know I had, I yanked open the window and threw all the photographs out.
“Hey!” screeched a passerby below as some of the photographs barely missed his head.
“Get out of the way! There’s more coming!” I shouted.
“Sorry! It’s a long story!” Liz shouted to the angry passerby, who was still frowning up at the window. She managed to wrestle me away from the window as she shut it.
“Adrian, abusing innocent passersby who just happen to have the misfortune of walking below this window is a little crazy. Now will you please calm down?”
“OK, OK,” I muttered, dabbing at my eyes as I felt a small rush of tears. I turned away from the window. “I’m just wondering when all this is going to stop hurting so much.”
“The point is, it will stop hurting,” Liz said, giving my shoulders a reassuring squeeze. “Now. If you’re done hurling objects out of windows, let’s get your stuff and get the hell out of here.”
We cleared out the remainder of my things and headed out twenty minutes later. I did let myself stand in the empty apartment for a moment. As I stood there, I briefly recalled the memories Marcus and I had shared in this apartment: the kisses, the fights, the makeups, the laughter. But only for a moment. I think that’s an important thing to note about the past … the longer you allow yourself to linger in it, the harder it is to escape.
“Come on, Adrian! For a suitcase that’s just filled with shoes, it’s surprisingly heavy!” Liz shouted from the hall.
And with that, I shut the door of my old apartment, metaphorically shutting the door on my past.
CHAPTER FIVE
Leggy Amazonian Supermodels
I managed to get through the weekend by avoiding all thoughts of Post-its, photographs, or even the word best. On Tuesday I met up with Jackson to do the interview. I decided that I would just get his profile over and done with so I could move on to bigger and better assignments, and I would not let him or his arrogance get on top of me. I mean, get to me. Get to me. Freudian slip.
I had honestly tried to get out of doing the interview. I argued with Jean on Monday, but he insisted he couldn’t pull anyone else to do Jackson’s profile, and all the New York publications were clamoring for an interview with him and we couldn’t lose the story, so his hands were tied.
As I approached Jackson in the small, intimate coffee shop he had chosen in the Village, he got to his feet. Jackson was apparently one of those people who always looked good. I was harboring a secret hope that he would develop a mole or a debilitating scar that would dampen what appeared to be his natural good looks. But, if anything, the man just kept getting better looking.
“I want to apologize to you again about last time,” Jackson said, pulling out my chair. I had always thought that male acts of chivalry were sweet but dated, and in Jackson’s case, probably a total show off. But I smiled my thanks, waving off his apology. I was determined not to let him ruffle my body. My feathers. Feathers. Feathers.
“Your editor told me about what happened at your wedding. And then I had to go and behave like a total ass,” Jackson said, shaking his head as he folded his long body into his chair.
“Jean told you about my wedding?” I asked, trying to sound casual despite my growing rage at Jean.
“Yeah. It kind of just slipped out. I don’t think he meant to tell me.”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m fine. The end of my relationship was mutual. And Jean had no business telling you about that.”
“Really?” Jackson asked, his brow furrowing. “From the way Jean described it, the jerk left you at the altar.”
“That’s not necessarily what happened,” I said, my voice faltering. I was going to murder Jean.
“I think the guy’s a complete jerk for what he did,” Jackson continued, shaking his head. “I mean, how heartless do you have to be to do something like that?”
“Enough. I’m fine. Totally and completely fine. So I just have a few quick questions, and then we can go our separate ways.”
“One last thing.”
“What?”
“The guy obviously didn’t deserve you,” Jackson said, reaching across our small table to briefly place his hand on mine. I held his gaze for a moment before placing my hands in my lap, giving him a tight smile.
“Right. Thank you. Thanks. I just have a few questions.”
“Do I get to ask you questions?”
“What?”
“Do I—”
“No. Jackson, I really do want to get through these. I need to get back to the office.”
“All right,” Jackson said, settling back in his chair. “But.”
“But?”
“I get to ask you one question. Just one. At the end of the interview. And you have to answer it. I promise it won’t be sleazy.”
“Fine,” I said after a long pause. “Now can I ask you these questions?”
“Absolutely.”’
I learned that Jackson was from a coastal town in Virginia. His parents divorced when he was young. He didn’t see his father much after the divorce, but he remained close to his mother. He left for college to attend Columbia University here in New York, where he stayed on to get his master’s degree in journalism. He worked for various magazines after graduation, but he left journalism behind to write full-time once his book became a best seller. When I asked him if anything in his personal life prompted him to write the book, he became surprisingly tight lipped.
“Jackson?” I asked, looking up when my question was met with uncharacteristic silence.
“What have you heard?” he asked, the playful glint gone from his eyes. I frowned. I had no idea where this abrupt change had come from.
“N-nothing,” I stammered, trying not to squirm under his intense gaze. “It’s just a simple question.”
Jackson closed his eyes and let out a sharp breath, taking a sip of his coffee. He lowered his cup and when he looked back up, he gave me a casual smile.
“Nothing personal happened. I just thought there should be a guide out there for
men and dating, like there are for women and dating. There’s a big misconception that men are just players who are all about the chase.”
“That’s a misconception?”
“Ha ha. But yes, it is. Men are just as intent on finding the One as women are. Hopefully, my book will help them do just that.”
“And have you ever found the One?”
Again, I saw Jackson briefly shut down before my eyes. But he snapped out of it, leaning back in his chair with a lazy grin.
“Have you?”
“You can’t answer a question with a question. Besides, I’m the one giving the interview. I promised you one question and that’s it.”
“That’s my question then, I guess.”
“No, I haven’t,” I faltered, lowering my eyes. I had thought that Marcus was the One. How wrong I was.
“What about your ex-fiancé?” Jackson prodded, seeming to read my thoughts.
“That’s none of your business,” I said. “Well, that’s about it for my questions. I may have some follow-up questions. I assume I can reach you at your office?”
“Here,” Jackson said, reaching into his pocket and sliding a card toward me. “My cell. You can reach me at that number easier than at the office.”
“Thank you.”
“Of course. And maybe I should have your cell number as well?” Jackson asked.
“That won’t be necessary. You can reach me at my office if you have any questions. Will you stop that?” I asked, exasperated.
Jackson had leaned forward in his chair and pinned me with a deep and probing stare. It was unnerving.
“What?”
“That staring thing.”
“Making you uncomfortable, am I?”
“No. Annoying me, yes.”
“Let’s just say I can’t help myself,” he said, laughing as I rolled my eyes. “You really don’t like me much, do you?”
“Now why would you think that? I know you’ve apologized oh so sincerely, but we didn’t get off to the best start. And you flirt with me in what can only be considered borderline sexual harassment. And you have an oversize ego. And you—”
“I get the point. How about this? I take you out sometime. We get a meal. Or a drink. I show you I’m a normal guy.”
“L-like a date?” I stammered, looking at him in horror.
“Call it what you want. And thanks for that look you’re giving me. I really appreciate it. It does wonders for my ego.”
“Sorry,” I said, attempting to tone down my look of horror to one of mild dismay. “I just don’t think that would be a good idea. You’re my interview subject, and I don’t date my subjects. So. Um, thanks but no thanks.”
“All right. Apologies. It really hasn’t been that long since you split with your fiancé,” Jackson said, shrugging.
I froze, my face flushing. The absolute nerve. Was he so arrogant to think the only reason I wouldn’t go out with him was because of my ex?
“Not wanting to go out with you has nothing to do with my ex, which again is none of your business,” I said, picking up my things from the table. “But it has everything to do with me not liking you because you’re obviously a narcissist who’s in love with yourself.”
And with that, I turned on my heel and headed out, pleased with getting the last word in.
“I’m looking forward to reading my profile!” Jackson called after me, not sounding in the least bothered.
It wasn’t until I left the coffee shop that I realized he had avoided answering my question about “the One.” Interesting.
*
“He’s just someone I met,” Mom said coolly.
Later that night I had been just about to slink into bed when Mom finally returned the call I placed to her after seeing her intimate dinner with the Zygote.
“Someone you met? Where? At the playground? How old is he?”
“I should be asking what you were doing spying on me. Shouldn’t you be looking for a new apartment? Are you still staying with Liz?”
“Don’t change the subject on me. Where did you meet him?”
“Why should any of that matter? Shouldn’t the point be that I’ve met someone who makes me happy?”
“He makes you happy? How come you’ve never mentioned him? And how old is he?”
“Who is the mother here and who is the daughter?”
“You’ve never even mentioned the guy. And why won’t you tell me how old he is? Is he legal?”
“Of course he’s legal. He’s twenty-three, but he’s very mature for his age.”
“He’s a zygote.”
“His name is Laurence. He’s a model, and he’s sweet.”
“A model? The Zygote is a model? How did you meet a twenty-three-year-old model zygote?”
“Will you stop referring to him with the medical term for a fetus? His name is Laurence. And I met him on a dating website a friend of mine referred me to.”
“You’re on a dating site?”
“There’s no need to sound so judgmental, young lady. Online dating is—”
“I know all about online dating, Mom. But if you’re going to do that, can’t you find someone—”
“What? Find someone my own age?”
“Well, yes,” I conceded.
“I never took you to be so judgmental, Adrian. Laurence is wonderful, and he makes me happy. That’s all that should matter. Just because you’re still moping over Marcus doesn’t mean everyone has to be moping.”
“I am not moping over Marcus. I’m just worried about you. How long have you been seeing him? What does he model?”
“Again, who is the mother and who is the child here? Like I told you, all that should matter is my happiness. And he makes me happy. End of discussion.”
“Mom.”
“I have to go. I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Mom!” I shouted at the dial tone. Damn it.
I did manage to finally crawl into bed, trying to ignore visions of Jackson’s smug face and Mom possibly walking down the aisle with the Zygote. Needless to say, it was a rough night.
I did get a few hours of sleep and crawled in to work a little bit early. As soon as I booted up my computer, my personal e-mail bleeped, alerting me to a new message. It was from Marcus. I tensed but clicked on it. It was a curt, no nonsense e-mail that read:
Adrian,
The landlord sent me back half of the deposit today. I have your part. Let me know if you want me to send it in the mail or if you want to meet in person. Hope all is well.
Best,
Marcus
I glared at the best for at least five full minutes. What was so hard about typing sincerely? Nine measly letters. I gritted my teeth, trying to dissect the context of the e-mail. Would he rather put the check in the mail to avoid seeing me? Did he think I couldn’t handle seeing him?
“Adrian, how’s the profile coming? Oh my God, is that an e-mail from Marcus?”
Jean had the annoying habit of appearing at my desk out of nowhere. I minimized the e-mail, opening the Word document in which I had already begun typing my profile.
“The profile is coming along nicely. You should have it by next week.”
“What did Marcus want? Is he crawling back to you? I knew it.”
“Jean, I love you, but it’s none of your business. Especially since you go around telling my interview subjects intimate details of my personal life.”
“Oh. Jackson told you. That was an accident.”
“Whatever. But I will tell you that no one is getting back together.”
“Fine,” Jean replied, giving the minimized e-mail another curious look before slinking away.
I took a breath, opening the e-mail. I could do this. I could show him that I was able to see him in person without yelling, throwing things, or breaking down. I was going to be casual and breezy and light. I was going to show him that I had moved on. I was going to show him I was totally fine.
Marcus,
I can meet you to pick
up the check, it’s no big deal. I can come to your office or meet you somewhere in the Village. Let me know what works best.
—Adrian
As soon as I clicked “Send,” I regretted it. I sounded way too desperate to see him. Going to his office? Wanting to see what works best for him? For him? The heartless jerk who decided that he couldn’t marry me? I quickly composed a new e-mail.
Marcus,
Actually, I’ve been pretty busy lately, but there is a teahouse right down the street from my office. We can meet there when I’m done, but it will have to be Thursday, as I’m pretty booked this week.
—Adrian
A little better. I wondered if I should mention that I had a date. No, too vindictive. And I had already sent the second e-mail. I couldn’t send yet another one. Could I? I decided that one more carefully worded e-mail wouldn’t hurt.
Marcus,
Apologies for all the e-mails. Let’s meet at 6:30 on Thursday. I’ll be on my way to a dinner thing. I’ll drop by your office on my way there.
—Adrian
Better. And an air of mystery about the “dinner thing.” Twenty minutes later, I received a reply.
Adrian,
I’m kind of confused by your multiple e-mails, so I’m going to assume the latest is the one to go by. I have an engagement in that area as well, so 6:30 PM in the lobby of my office building is fine. See you then.
Best,
Marcus
Oh, so he had an engagement? And why did he have to use that term? Sensitive, much? I looked at my calendar. Thursday was nearly a week away. I had already dropped four pounds since I started my emergency post-breakup weight loss plan. If I really, really worked hard, maybe I could lose four more by the time I had to meet him. I was going to look fabulous.
As soon as I got home that evening, I made Liz’s living room into a makeshift gym. It was complete with the requisite weights, jump rope, workout DVDs, a balance ball, a yoga mat, and a stretchy rubber band thing that I think I was supposed to do additional strength training with.
I was listening to a breakup mix that I’d specifically put together. I stuck to classic empowering songs such as the trail blazing “I Will Survive” by Gloria Gaynor, Nancy Sinatra’s “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’,” and for a more modern tune, “Irreplaceable” by Beyoncé. I was going to stay far away from weepy breakup songs such as “Can’t Smile Without You” by The Carpenters and “I Will Always Love You” by Whitney Houston. Even hearing a snippet of those songs would make me want to crawl into a ball and sob my eyes out with self-pity. The angry breakup songs were much more motivating.