Just Jilted

by Lila James

  I was in the midst of doing a complicated weight lift with my feet when Liz came home.

  “What are you doing?” Liz demanded in a raspy voice.

  “What does it look like? I’m exercising,” I said, lifting the five-pound weight between my feet with great difficulty. “What’s up with your voice?”

  “It looks like you’re torturing yourself,” Liz said, shutting the door behind her and ignoring my question. “And you don’t need to lose weight. You’re delusional.”

  “I’m meeting with Marcus to pick up my half of the deposit on Thursday. I have to look terrific.”

  “You always look terrific,” Liz insisted, taking a seat on the couch.

  I lowered the weight, sitting up. Again, she looked tense, and there were dried tears on her face.

  “I got into a fight with Stewart. I just spent the past hour screaming at him. Hence the raspy voice.”

  “Oh no,” I said, getting up and sitting next to her on the couch.

  “It’s one of those arguments that start over something stupid. I think we got into a debate over what year Sesame Street first aired and what jobs Bert and Ernie were supposed to have. Never mind. Don’t ask. And then it became this huge blowup. Why won’t I commit to moving in with him, I spend too much time at work and not enough time with him, et cetera, et cetera, blah, blah, blah.”

  “He wants you to move in?”

  “Yes. But this apartment is awesome. And it belongs to my family. I don’t want to give it up. And he doesn’t want to give up his place in Park Slope.”

  “Did you say anything about the ring? Make any hints?”

  “No, but ever since I found it it’s been in the back of my mind. I’ve been walking on eggshells with him. I keep wondering when he’s going to ask. It’s causing me to feel all this dread.”

  I tried not to wonder if this was how Marcus felt in the days leading up to our “wedding.”

  “Do you want to break up with him? Because the longer you wait, the more painful it’s going to be. For both parties. I mean, you don’t want to wait until ten minutes before the wedding to decide you really can’t marry him,” I said, attempting to laugh, but it came out as a pained chortle instead. “Aargh. Sorry, sorry. You should just do what you feel is right. Don’t listen to me.”

  “No, you’re right. I shouldn’t string him along. But it’s like … Stewart is this faded old black T-shirt. In my case, the one with eighties-era Michael Jackson on it. It may be dated and old, but it’s so comfortable. It fits perfectly. But it gets kind of boring. And there are all these brand new shiny shirts out there. But you’d have to go through the whole process of finding one that fits,” Liz said in a rush, giving me an imploring look.

  I nodded, but deep down I was feeling pretty sorry for used eighties-era Michael Jackson T-shirt Stewart. Was I an old eighties-era Cyndi Lauper T-shirt for Marcus? Had he found a 2017 Lady Gaga T-shirt?

  “Or better yet,” Liz continued, “you listen to this one radio station. But it plays the same type of music. All. The. Time. And don’t get me wrong, you like the music. But while you’re listening to your favorite song, there are all these brand-new songs playing on all the other stations. And you’re missing all the brand-new songs because you’re stuck listening to that one song.”

  “I see,” I murmured, feeling positively awful for Stewart now.

  “Do you? Do you really?”

  I could see that she really, really needed my input. I mentally banished the image of mine and Stewart’s faces stuck on faded old black Tshirts.

  “Yes,” I lied, placing my hand over hers. “But you have to decide what you’re going to do. And soon. If you know for sure that marriage is not what you want, don’t let him propose.”

  Liz nodded, sinking farther down into the couch.

  “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. Thanks for listening.”

  “Anytime,” I replied, trying without success to block the image of me and Stewart being forcibly dragged away to a metaphorical eighties wasteland, trapped between George Michael, Cyndi Lauper, Michael Jackson, and the Go-Go’s while Liz and Marcus partied with the hip stars of today.

  *

  That Thursday at 6:30 p.m. sharp, I was in the lobby of Marcus’s building. By the combined miracle of crash dieting and workouts, I was down an additional five pounds, for a total loss of nearly ten pounds since my “wedding.” I was decked out in the classic little black dress and heels. If Marcus was curious as to where I was going, I would breezily yet evasively tell him I had a date and watch with pleasure as he stewed with jealousy. I closed my eyes, trying to savor the look he’d have on his face when he saw me.

  “Adrian?”

  My eyes flew open. Marcus stood in front of me. My heart involuntarily lurched in my chest. Being in his physical presence was more difficult than I had anticipated. But I was determined not to show him that he affected me in any way.

  I gave him a casual smile. He did look good, I grudgingly admitted to myself. Jilting people at the altar must be doing wonders for him. But Marcus had always been effortlessly handsome. A lot like Jackson.

  I cleared Jackson’s face from my mind as Marcus looked me up and down. But it was definitely not the kind of checking out I was hoping for. He looked worried. His brow creased with a frown.

  “You’re looking thin. Have you been sick? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fantastic. I’ve started going to the gym,” I replied, startled by his reaction.

  “Oh. You’re really dressed up. But you look nice,” he added hastily.

  I could now see that Marcus looked preoccupied and uncomfortable. As if he would rather be anywhere other than here with me. This was not going as planned.

  “I have a date,” I blurted, hoping for some kind of reaction. I noted with pleasure that Marcus did not look at all happy to hear this, as he went stiff and a muscle tightened in his jaw.

  “Oh. Well, here you go,” Marcus said, handing me an envelope.

  “Thank you. He’s taking me to that French bistro we used to go to downtown. They’ve renovated it. I’m looking forward to going back.”

  I got another macabre feeling of glee at the anger that infused Marcus’s expression. I knew that my lie was pushing things a bit, but he deserved a little jab after the whole jilting thing he pulled.

  “Mm-hmm. I’m glad you’re doing well, Adrian.”

  “Marcus, are you ready? I’ve been waiting for ten minutes,” a sultry female voice cooed.

  Marcus and I turned, and I swear it was as if time stopped. The slight glee I’d been feeling vanished—because a nearly six-foot-tall leggy brunette decked out in stiletto heels and a fancy dress suit and dripping with some expensive fragrance approached Marcus. As she walked through the lobby (she had to be walking in slow motion), men and women turned to check her out. She was incredibly, devastatingly, heartbreakingly beautiful.

  I felt nausea nearly overwhelm me as she walked up to the man I had loved, linking her slender arm through his, the way I used to. I fought like hell to keep the moisture that pricked at the back of my eyelids from falling.

  “I’m sorry,” the leggy beauty breathed, giving me an apologetic smile. “I didn’t know Marcus was busy.”

  “This is Gabrielle,” Marcus said, looking as if he wanted the floor to swallow him up. That made two of us. “Gabrielle, this is Adrian.”

  Gabrielle gave me a generous smile, and I could tell she had no idea who I was. No idea that almost a month ago, I wore a $3,000 wedding dress, on the verge of walking down the aisle to wed the man she had just plastered herself to.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Adrian,” the goddess said, infuriatingly polite.

  “I don’t want to be late. So. All right. Um, bye. Goodbye. Marcus. Gabrielle. Marcus. Bye,” I said quickly, turning on my heel and making a beeline for the exit.

  Before I could reach the safety of the exit doors, I somehow managed to collide with an elderly couple, and we became entangled in a
mass of twisted limbs as I crashed to the floor. The leggy Amazon and Marcus rushed forward to help as I stumbled to my feet, breezily waving off their concerned looks as I backed toward the exit, bumping into several people trying to make their way past me into the lobby. I finally reached the swinging doors, stumbling out of the building, letting the air cool the tears on my cheeks.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Rebound

  Marcus had obviously decided to move on mere weeks after a serious two-year relationship (which included a six-month engagement and “wedding”). I could deal with that. If he wanted to date a six-foot tall supermodel with endless legs and a tiny waist and perfect breasts and a firm ass—well. He could go right ahead. More power to him. Because Marcus’s actions revealed to me a very important step in getting over a breakup that I almost overlooked.

  The good old-fashioned Rebound. He would provide a desperately needed distraction so that I didn’t have to envision Marcus in bed with the leggy supermodel. A living, breathing distraction.

  Liz came in later that night with Stewart to find me seated on the living room floor, a bottle of wine and bag of Doritos on the floor next to me. Wine and Doritos mix surprisingly well, I had discovered. After sending Stewart to her room, Liz approached me.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “Men,” I replied, stuffing my face with several Doritos and downing a swig of wine.

  “Men,” Liz repeated, trying to follow.

  “I need to find some. Take me to bar,” I slurred.

  “It’s a little late. How about this weekend?” Liz asked, not baffled at all by the request.

  “I need find men now,” I repeated, wiping away a stray tear as I reached for the bottle of wine. Liz removed it from my reach.

  “Hey,” I protested.

  “I think you’ve had enough. May I ask what’s prompted your sudden need for men?”

  “I think all supermodels are spawns of the devil,” I said, wiping away another damn tear. Why couldn’t I stop crying? I was going for anger here, not grief. Anger was much more productive.

  “Models exist to make normal people feel ugly. And you know what? We’re not. We have good personalities. But just her presence made me feel like a five-hundred-pound stringy-haired elephant.”

  “Elephants don’t have hair, sweetie. At least, not the way you’re probably thinking. Who are you talking about?”

  “Marcus’s new girlfriend,” I said, dabbing at my eyes. “She’s an evil leggy supermodel. When I met him to get the deposit back, she was there. And she has a great butt. And boobs. Everything was perky, by the way. I’m already sagging everywhere. You’re not supposed to sag at twenty-eight!”

  “You are not sagging.”

  “Compared to her I am.”

  “Nothing on you is sagging, Adrian. You are gorgeous and you know it.”

  “God, what if he’s been dating her for a while?” I asked, feeling a growing sense of horror, ignoring Liz’s compliment. “What if he dumped me for her?”

  “Stop it, Adrian. Put down the Doritos. You’re being paranoid. How do you know he’s even dating her?”

  “What?” I asked, a small ray of hope filtering through my wine-induced buzz.

  “It could have been an attractive family member. Client. Friend, even.”

  “No, you should have seen the way she was touching him. They’re definitely together.”

  “You don’t know that. How about this? I can ask Marcus’s friend Gerry. We still talk.”

  “No, don’t you dare. He’ll know that I’m spying on him.”

  “Gerry still has a book I lent him a couple of months ago. I can call him to just have him drop it in the mail for me, and I’ll do the polite ‘how is everything’ inquiry. Trust me, I’m good at subtly prying for information.”

  “Or …” I said as a thought occurred to me.

  “Or?”

  “I can call Marcus and just ask him.”

  “No way, Adrian. Especially not now. Drunken calls to the ex are a terrible idea.”

  “Agreed. I won’t call him.”

  Liz watched me suspiciously as I stumbled to my feet and headed to my room.

  Once back in the safety of my room, I made a dive for my cell phone. The bed made a loud squeak when I landed on it. I momentarily froze, praying that Liz hadn’t heard. I opened my cell phone, dialing Marcus’s cell phone number that I of course knew by heart.

  “Adrian!” Liz shouted from behind me just as I was about to press “Send” to place the call. Liz rushed into the room and yanked the cell phone from me.

  “Give it back!”

  “No! You’re only going to make—aargh!”

  I managed an impressive tackle of Liz around her midsection, catching her off guard. Liz landed on her back with a thud as I managed to wrench the cell phone from her grasp. In an impressive move, Liz slapped the phone from my hand, and it went flying across the room.

  Liz and I dove for it at the same time, but somehow Liz managed to grab it first, holding it triumphantly over her head for a millisecond until I tackled her again.

  “What the hell is going on?” Stewart asked from the doorway, his expression a mixture of amusement, confusion, and arousal. Men.

  “Liz took my phone! Give it back!”

  Liz curled into a solid fetal position, protecting my cell phone as I tried to grab it.

  “No! You’ll thank me for this later! I’m doing this for you!” Liz shouted.

  I began to tickle Liz beneath her armpits. She giggled, loosening her grip on my phone, as I made another desperate reach for it.

  “That’s it, you two,” Stewart said as he grabbed Liz (who still maintained her death grip on my cell phone) and me, prying us apart, standing between us as we glared at each other.

  There was a standoff as Liz and I held each other’s determined gaze. Finally, Liz began to laugh. I followed suit, my shoulders shaking. Stewart looked back and forth between us, baffled.

  “I’m still going to keep your cell phone until tomorrow,” Liz said as her laughter subsided.

  “Fine,” I said, exhausted. “Sorry about that, Stewart.”

  “I assume I can leave now? Are you two done with the fighting?” Stewart asked.

  “For now,” I said, grinning.

  “Trust me, you’ll thank me later for keeping your cell phone. Are you going to be all right?” Liz asked.

  “Sure. I just know my dreams will be filled with visions of leggy supermodels walking down the aisle to Marcus.”

  “Do you need me to hang out?” Liz offered.

  “No, you can go. I’ll be fine,” I said, giving her a grateful smile.

  “You sure?” Liz prodded.

  “Yeah. But you really should go.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m tempted to tackle you again to get to my cell phone.”

  *

  The next day I stumbled into the office, battling a hell of a hangover. Wine’s gentle buzz was deceiving. I also had several scratches from my cell phone fight with Liz. So I was completely out of it as I sat across from Jean while he looked over the profile I’d written about Jackson.

  “This is wonderful!” he gushed.

  “Really?” I asked groggily, rubbing my forehead.

  “This is one of your best pieces. And the fact that we’re one of the few magazines who got an interview with Jackson Taylor …” Jean continued, beaming at me. “Heartbreak must work wonders for you, Adrian. This is fantastic.”

  “I’m not heartbroken,” I said but stopped myself from going further. It was no use. “Thanks.”

  “In fact,” Jean continued, “I enjoyed this so much that I already showed it to Jackson’s people. They like to look at profiles on him before they’re published. Anyway, they’ve been fielding offers from other magazines for him to do a joint piece with one of their writers. Kind of a male and female dual point of view thing.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said as a feeling of dread coiled in the pit
of my stomach.

  “So. They suggested that you two do a piece together.”

  “Absolutely not. I only agreed to do that profile on Jackson because you practically blackmailed me into it.”

  “You were the one who offered to branch out, remember?”

  “I did branch out by doing that profile. I’m sure there are plenty of people here who would love to work with Jackson. I, however, am not one of them.”

  “Jackson only wants to work with you, Adrian. And why do you dislike him so much, anyway? Your profile is complimentary.”

  “I was being an objective journalist. Between you and me I think he’s arrogant, egotistical, and overrated.”

  “Right,” Jean replied, sounding amused. “Well. I know how this is going to sound. But everyone else is tied down to their own stories, and we need you to cover some additional articles anyway. I don’t want to have to tell the big bosses that you absolutely refuse to do the assignment.”

  “Jean, come on.”

  “I’m sorry, darling. My hands are tied. And there are worse things in the world than having to do an article on finding love in the big city with Jackson Taylor.”

  “Oh God. Finding love in the big city? Could that be a bigger cliché?”

  “A clever male and female dual perspective on finding love is always interesting. It doubles our readership.”

  “All right, all right,” I said, holding up my hands. “Can I just write an article from my point of view, and Jackson can write a separate piece?”

  “Nope. It has to be together,” Jean said cheerfully, just as his phone rang. “He will be in touch with you either today or Monday.”

  “Jean, please.”

  “Gotta take this call, love. Close the door behind you on your way out.”