Just Jilted

by Lila James

  I slunk out of Jean’s office and headed back to my desk. I reached for the bottle of Extra Strength TYLENOL on the side of my desk, draining it down with water. It just seemed like my day was getting worse by the minute. When my phone rang, I snatched it up without thinking.

  “Adrian Lexley.”

  “Adrian.” Marcus’s quiet voice on the other end of the line startled me. I was starting to learn that sudden interactions with exes were like car crashes: they could happen suddenly and without warning.

  “Marcus.”

  “Are you busy?”

  “Well, I’m at work. Can I help you with something?”

  “I just wanted to make sure you were OK.”

  “I’m fine,” I said shortly. “I’ve moved on. You’ve moved on. Obviously.”

  “I didn’t want you to find out about Gabrielle that way,” Marcus continued. My heart tightened at the way he said Gabrielle. Like he used to say my name. I don’t know why I asked the next question, but I was obsessed with knowing.

  “How long?” I asked.

  “How long what?”

  “How long have you been seeing her? Since before or after the wedding that never was?”

  “Oh, come on, Adrian. Give me some credit.”

  “Give you some credit? You know what? Please don’t call me. Ever, ever, ever again. There’s nothing more for us to discuss.”

  “Adrian, will you just talk to me?”

  “Have fun with Giselle!”

  I hung up. Two desks over, Leah was staring. I gave her a bright smile. The day was off to a terrific start. Just terrific.

  But I managed to get through it, and as soon as I got back to Liz’s apartment later that afternoon, I decided I had to destroy the wedding dress. Now that Marcus had officially replaced me, I had to officially destroy any remnant of our “wedding.”

  With this in mind, I grabbed the wedding dress out of the closet, stashed it into a garment bag, and took it downtown to a favorite boutique store of mine that also tailored dresses. I decided to have the dress shortened into a sexy cocktail dress that I would wear on one of my first dates with my rebound.

  Thankfully, the salesclerk didn’t ask too many questions, and after I gave her detailed instructions, she told me she would have their seamstress start on it right away, all for a reasonable fee. Pleased with my creative thinking, I decided to reward myself with some shopping.

  I daringly decided to try on a couple of dresses that were two sizes below my actual size. To my sheer delight, the first one I tried on fit perfectly. I felt terrific. Giselle may have been a size negative two, but I was an actual size two! I tried on the second one, a backless red dress. I had to suck in a little to slip it on but it fit. I turned, admiring myself in the mirror. It looked amazing on me. My post-breakup diet was a success!

  I started to shimmy out of the dress but I couldn’t. With great difficulty, I managed to reach around, and I attempted to pull down the zipper. It came halfway down before it got stuck. Desperate, I began to yank at the size two concoction, but the stubborn thing wasn’t moving an inch. I really was stuck in the dress! Freaked out, I attempted several more times to get out of the damn dress. But it wouldn’t budge.

  “Ma’am?” the salesclerk called from outside my dressing room. No doubt she’d seen my frantic feet hopping back and forth as I tried to yank off the dress. “Is everything OK in there?”

  I didn’t respond right away. I had the horrifying image of a team of firefighters having to resort to the Jaws of Life in order to extract me from the dress. I would be the subject of amusing headlines all around the world, like:

  Average-Size Woman Attempts to Get into Size-Two Dress, Ends up Stuck for Life

  Average-Size Woman Buried in Dress She Unsuccessfully Tried to Squeeze into Eighty Years Ago

  “I’m fine!” I called out with forced brightness. “Mind if I purchase this dress while I’m still wearing it?”

  And I was forced to do just that. The clerk rang me up as I tried to hide my pain with a smile, which most likely appeared to be a grimace.

  I hailed a cab because there was no way I could take the subway uptown to Liz’s place in the increasingly painful dress. When I finally stumbled into Liz’s apartment, I cried out for help. She rushed into the living room, alarmed.

  “What? What is it? Wow, great dress!” Liz said, all in one breath.

  “I’m stuck in this ‘great’ dress, which I just paid three hundred dollars for to save myself from a lifetime of embarrassment. Please help me get out of it.”

  “You got stuck?”

  “Yes. In the fitting room. It’s a size two.”

  “You’re not a size two.”

  “Yes, now I know that. Convinced. Please help me.”

  Liz attempted to tug me out of it, but the zipper only made it three-quarters of the way down.

  “Suck in a little, Adrian,” Liz said, stifling what I suspected was a chuckle as she took a step back.

  “I hope you’re not getting amusement from my pain,” I muttered, sucking in my stomach. “I have lost a lot of weight. And the other size two dress I tried on fit just fine.”

  “I believe you,” Liz said, grinning openly now as she again attempted to unzip me. “This is one of my fears, you know. There’s getting hit by a cab, struck by lightning, choking to death on a plum seed, and getting stuck in a dress in the fitting room.”

  “Well, it really does happen,” I said, expelling a sigh of relief as Liz managed to yank the zipper all the way down. “Choking on a plum seed is one of your fears?”

  “I had an incident as a child. Long story.”

  I stepped out of the dress and took a breath. I decided then and there that I would never again take breathing without restriction for granted. I then proceeded to tell Liz about Marcus’s phone call. As soon as I mentioned Marcus’s name, Liz’s eyes widened and she slapped her forehead.

  “Oh, that reminds me! I talked to his friend Gerry. I was casual when I asked how Marcus was doing. He mentioned that Marcus is seeing this Argentinean woman. The way he talked about it, it’s more of a casual rebound thing than anything else.”

  “Oh, that makes me feel better,” I said sarcastically, my heart sinking. “What did you say about me?”

  “I said that you were doing really well, and you were already dating.”

  “Good move.”

  Liz looked as if she were going to say something else when my cell phone chirped. It was Mom. Liz retreated back into her room as I answered.

  “If you want to redeem yourself for being rude to me the last time we spoke, I’m having dinner with Laurence two blocks from Liz’s apartment. You’ll get a chance to meet him and see for yourself how wonderful he is,” Mom said, skipping over the greeting.

  “Mom, I really don’t have time,” I began, sinking down onto the couch.

  “No excuses, sweetheart. I’ll see you in about an hour.”

  And so I ended up having dinner with Mom and the zygote she was dating. (Even though I knew that his name was Laurence, Zygote just seemed so much more appropriate.) I decided to make the best of the awkward situation. I was still embarrassed over my dressing-room incident, reeling from the knowledge that Marcus was dating a sexy, leggy supermodel, which was compounded by the fact that I would be stuck with Jackson Taylor in what was obviously an act of professional blackmail by my boss, so I decided that I would get tipsy on as much wine as I could muster. Besides, the Zygote, in a desperate attempt to win me over, was paying for everything.

  “Haven’t you had enough wine, Adrian?” Mom asked.

  “No,” I said sweetly, filling my glass with even more merlot.

  “So, ah,” Mom said, eyeing me as I took another swig of wine, “Laurence just came back from a photo shoot in the Caribbean. Didn’t you, Laurence?”

  “Yes. It was wonderful,” Laurence replied, with just a hint of a French accent.

  I cringed. Photo shoots reminded me of models. The Zygote was a model. Th
is only reminded me of the leggy Amazon whom Marcus was most definitely sleeping with.

  “Fascinating,” I said, eyeing the now-empty bottle of wine. “Any way we can get a refill?”

  “No,” Mom snapped.

  “It’s fine,” the zygote model said, waving over the waiter. Mom glared at me as he ordered another bottle of wine.

  “Say, do you know any models named Gabrielle?” I asked the Zygote, trying to sound casual.

  “I know lots of Gabrielles.”

  “This one’s about seven feet tall. Brunette. Incredible body. A stunner. Perfect boobs and ass,” I slurred, stifling a burp.

  “Adrian,” Mom hissed, reaching across the table and taking my glass of wine.

  “No, it’s all right. Seven feet tall, you say?” the Zygote asked, smiling. This was probably the most amusing dinner he’d had in a while. “Again. You’ve described a lot of the Gabrielles I know.”

  “Ha!” I snorted, hiccupping as I tried to smother my giggles.

  A few of the other patrons were beginning to stare. Mom was glaring at me. The Zygote started to say something, but he stopped when his cell phone rang. He glanced at it, giving us an apologetic look.

  “I’m sorry. I have to take this. Give me just one second,” the Zygote said, kissing Mom’s hand before stepping away. I tried to sneak a grab for my wine, but Mom slapped my hand away.

  “You are behaving terribly, Adrian.”

  “Behaving? How old am I? Twelve? Oh, wait. That’s the Zygote.”

  “What on earth is wrong with you?” Mom asked.

  I shrugged, avoiding her gaze. Mom’s expression abruptly changed.

  “Oh, sweetheart. I keep forgetting. It really hasn’t been that long since your wedding. You’re still upset over Marcus.”

  “Marcus Smarcus!” I shrieked, earning more curious glances from the other patrons of the restaurant. “It’s just work stress. And the fact that my mother is dating a zygote.”

  “Stop calling him that,” Mom said. “You know you can confide in me, don’t you—”

  “Marcus Smarcus,” I cut her off, looking down at the tablecloth. But Mom kept her intent gaze on me.

  “I know this is about Marcus. And you know why? Because this is exactly how I behaved right after your father and I split up and I found out he was dating that hussy. Oh. Is that it, sweetie? Is Marcus dating someone else? Already?”

  I got to my feet, blinking back tears. I hated, hated, hated that Mom was so spot-on perceptive sometimes. And I was also disturbed to learn that we apparently behaved in a similar manner after discovering our exes were dating mere seconds after our breakups.

  “Marcus Smarcus,” I repeated, grabbing my purse. “Please thank the Zygote for dinner. It was wonderful.”

  Mom was silent, giving me a sympathetic look as I headed out of the restaurant. Marcus Smarcus. Marcus Smarcus. I needed to find a rebound as soon as possible.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Hot Brit

  “So we’re going to be working together. I’m looking forward to it,” Jackson drawled.

  It was early the next morning at work, and Jackson had called me as soon as I sat down at my desk. Once again the massive amount of wine I had consumed the night before was doing a number on my brain, so Jackson’s smooth tone was immediately an irritant. I clutched the phone to my ear, turning to glare into Jean’s office. He was on the phone. He smiled and gave me the thumbs-up sign. I shot daggers at him with my eyes and whirled back around in my chair.

  “Yes, we are,” I responded through gritted teeth.

  “You don’t sound excited about it.”

  “It’s an assignment. I’m a journalist. I’m doing my job.”

  “But it’s going to be fun. A riot. Me, the dating guru. Sharing my secrets with the masses.”

  “I would hardly call you a dating guru. Again, this is just an assignment. So how do you want to do this? We can e-mail back and forth. That would be best.”

  “You really can’t stand me,” Jackson said with a sigh, the wry humor draining from his tone. “I’m not bad. At all. We really should have coffee some time.”

  “I’m not dating you.”

  “Not a date. Don’t you ever have coffee with your friends?”

  “I don’t think a little meet up is necessary. I can e-mail you some ideas for the article.”

  “Nah. I don’t work like that.”

  “How do you work?” I snapped.

  “Yipes. Someone’s testy,” Jackson rejoined. “I suggest we meet in person to go over our ideas. You know, the old-fashioned way. Face-to-face.”

  “Where do you want to meet? Another strip club?”

  “Touché. No, I’ll let you pick this time. Wherever. Whenever. I’m available,” Jackson replied. I could hear the smile in his voice.

  “How about an actual office?”

  “Yawn. Can’t you be more imaginative?”

  “How about an office?”

  “Fine, fine. I can come to your office.”

  “No, not here,” I said quickly, imagining the nosy stares of my coworkers. “Your office.”

  “You’re the boss,” he replied. “When?”

  “Wednesday. Two p.m.”

  “Terrific. I’ll be counting the seconds.”

  “So will I. For different reasons.”

  “You’re such a ray of sunshine, Adrian. I’m looking forward to working with you. Gotta go. My fans await. See you soon.”

  I hung up, reached for my reliable bottle of Extra Strength Tylenol, and attempted to get some work done. Working with Jackson Taylor was going to be just terrific.

  *

  “How about that guy, John St. something?” Liz asked in between mouthfuls of banana-flavored ice cream.

  I was doing a workout with free weights in the living room. Liz was curled up behind me on the couch, eating high-fat ice cream while I sweated. We—or Liz, rather—were going through a list of potential rebounds for me. This was brought on by a Victoria’s Secret commercial, which reminded me of models, which reminded of Leggy Amazonian Supermodel, which caused me to nearly break out in hives, which caused Liz to immediately start drawing up a list of rebounds.

  “He’s Republican. And his last name begins with Saint. He has pretension written all over him.”

  “You said yourself you’re not going to be too picky over a rebound because it’s likely it won’t last anyway.”

  “I know, I know. But I’m still entitled to some standards.”

  “Kenneth Leighton? That guy I work with, remember? You met him at that happy hour thing we went to a few weeks ago.”

  “I said no guys who work at your job,” I protested.

  Liz worked as an account manager at a small investment firm. I had gone with her to a couple of company parties, and I found all of her coworkers to be a little strange. I couldn’t pinpoint it, but there was something off about all of them.

  “And Kenneth looks like a yeti,” I added.

  “Adrian.”

  “He does. Next.”

  “Bruce Knightley.”

  “Ugh. I hate the way he laughs.”

  “The way he laughs?”

  “Next,” I repeated, picking up the remote and flipping away from yet another Victoria’s Secret commercial.

  “Tim Halpern. Scott Yardley. James Perry.”

  “Tim reminds me of my jerk of a high school boyfriend. Scott’s too … something. I can’t put my finger on it. And I have a hard time looking at James. I know that’s mean, but it’s true.”

  “What about that guy they’re making you work with? Jackson Taylor?”

  “What?” I squawked, looking at her in horror.

  “You said he flirts with you. He asked you out once, right? He has to be doing well for himself with that book of his. And what a hottie. I saw his picture on his website. Nice.”

  “Liz, no way. No way, no way, no way. He’s OK-looking, yes, but I don’t even like him. He’s so full of himself, it’s ridiculou
s. And I’m sure he flirts with everyone. He’s just enjoying his fifteen minutes of fame. And don’t even get me started on his arrogance.”

  “Jeez, calm down,” Liz replied, annoyed. “Well, that’s it. All the single and available guys I know. You’ve managed to find something wrong with all of them.”

  “That’s because there is something wrong with all of them.”

  Liz started to say something, but her cell phone began to chirp. She quickly silenced the ring.

  “Who was that?”

  “No one.” Liz got to her feet and tucked her cell phone securely into her pocket. “So I’ve done my part. You’re going to have to find your own rebound.”

  “I’ll do it the old-fashioned way,” I said, gritting my teeth as an ad came on promoting an upcoming fashion show, featuring even more models. “I’ll go to a bar. And you’ll come with me as my wing woman.”

  “Adrian. Come on. You and I haven’t been to a bar together, alone, since before you dated Marcus.”

  “So? All the more reason to go out. It’ll be fun.”

  “Trying to convince yourself?”

  “Yes. And you’re not helping,” I said, setting down my weights. “Come on. This Saturday. We’ll bar hop. Meet people. If I meet a guy, whatever. If not, whatever.”

  “All right, all right. But I’m only coming with you to make you feel better.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Right,” Liz said with playful sarcasm as she headed into her bedroom.

  When Saturday rolled around, I dragged a still-reluctant Liz out to a bar. And I have to admit, I was nervous. Going out on the town newly single is the equivalent of being thrown into shark-infested waters. My relationship had been a safe harbor, so to speak. There had been a virtual shield around me on the “meat market” scene when I was happily involved with Marcus.

  I had come to the conclusion that there was a dividing line between Singles and Couples. Those who were on the Couples side of the dividing line watched the desperate Singles trying to make that rare connection—or, less rare, physical connection—while lovingly grasping each other’s hand, smirking. Marcus and I had been one of such Couples, watching from the sidelines with wry amusement as Singles tried to become Couples. At the time I couldn’t help but look at some of the Singles with pity while they tried to hook up, thanking my lucky stars I wasn’t one of them. But now, for the first time in over two years of happy coupledom, I was one of the Singles I had once looked upon with pity. It was an odd feeling, to say the least.