The Good Girl's Guide to Bad Men

by Jessica Brody

  Sophie reached out and rubbed my arm. "You don't know that. What if Jamie is sitting alone at home right now, just praying that the phone will ring and it'll be you calling to apologize?"

  "He's at work," I stated matter-of-factly.

  Sophie rolled her eyes. "Or at work! Whatever."

  I attempted to shake my head, but the movement was so slight, I doubt the meaning of the gesture came across. So I verbalized it with a blank, "No."

  Sophie frowned. "You have to at least try] You have nothing more to lose. You've already lost everything!"

  John shot her a look. "Sophie!"

  "Sorry," she mumbled as she lowered her head to take a sip from her straw. "But she has."

  I looked at her incredulously. "I'm not going to call him."

  She considered my statement for a second and then responded, "No, you're right. That wouldn't be appropriate. It has to be a drop-by."

  I sighed. "A what?"

  "You have to drop by his house," John translated. "Calling would be a complete cop-out. If you're going to beg for him back, it has to be in person."

  For the next fifteen minutes, John and Sophie proceeded to plot out a full-fledged strategy for getting Jamie back, complete with scripts with multiple scenario variations depending on Jamie's reactions to each of the statements they had planned out for me to say. It was starting to sound like they were writing one of those Choose Your Own Adventure books. I suppose it failed to dawn on them that I hadn't agreed to any of this. Either that, or they didn't really care whether I agreed to it or not.

  "So there you go," Sophie said, turning the cocktail napkin she had been scribbling on so that I could read it. "Your guide to reconciliation."

  But I didn't even bother to look. "No," I said again.

  Sophie banged her fist on the table. "Come on, Jen. What else are you going to do? Sit around your house and mope until you're eighty?"

  I feigned consideration. "Yep. Pretty much."

  She groaned. "No, you're not. We're going to fix this. We are going to get him back."

  "We?" I asked with skepticism.

  She nodded resolutely. "Yep. I'm going with you. We'll stake out his place in Century City and wait for him to come home from work."

  "Uh-huh," I indulged her sarcastically. "And then are you going to come inside with me and chaperone?"

  "No," she replied, frustrated by my antics. "I'm going to wait in the car."

  "Well," I said flippantly, nodding to her ink-covered napkin, "since you seem to already have the conversation all figured out, maybe you should just go up there and I'll wait in the car. Or better yet, why don't I just stay home and you can go all by yourself. Then you can text me and tell me how it went!"

  Sophie exhaled a defeated sigh. "We just want you to be happy, Jen."

  I looked to John, and he nodded his agreement. Then my face softened. "I know you guys do. And I love you for that. But I'm not going to Jamie's house. End of story.

  Although apparently it wasn't the end of the story, because six hours later I found myself sitting in the passenger seat of Sophie's car, staring at the front of Jamie's building. I'm not sure how she was even able to talk me into this in the first place, but sometime between Starbucks and now, I caved. It probably had a lot to do with a full day of listening to Sophie's incessant whining and pleading and listing her million and a half reasons why she was right and I was crazy. I swear the girl should work for the government. I bet she could crack suspected terrorists in under ten minutes with that nagging voice of hers.

  The "plan" was to wait for Jamie's car to turn the corner and pull into the underground garage before using the key that I had yet to return to him to get through the street-level entrance. Then I would take the stairs to the second floor and wait in the stairwell for him to get off the elevator and enter his loft. Then I would knock on his front door.

  I glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was already almost eight. "What if he's working late?" I asked Sophie.

  She shrugged. "I have nowhere to be. Do you?"

  I shifted in my seat. My butt was starting to fall asleep. "Well, what if he's on a business trip? We could be here for several days."

  "He's not," Sophie stated confidently.

  "How do you know?" I countered.

  She pointed through the front windshield at the second floor of the building. "That's his loft, right there."

  I leaned forward to look up. "Yeah, so?"

  She pointed again. "His bathroom light is on. People don't accidentally leave lights on when they know they're going away for several days."

  I turned and stared at her. "Do you do this often?"

  She simply shrugged. "Let's just say it's not my first stakeout."

  I had to crack a smile at this. My first one all day. "Why does that not surprise me?"

  A silence fell between us, and Sophie turned on the radio. She flipped through a dozen or so stations on her satellite radio until she found one called Sirius XM Chill. The station stayed true to its titular promise as a soothing female voice filled the air, backed by a sultry African-inspired drumbeat. I felt my body start to relax.

  I leaned back against the headrest and took in a heavy breath. "You haven't said anything about Zoë," I pointed out.

  Sophie was quiet for a moment, seemingly contemplative before she said, "I know. I figured we'd deal with one thing at a time."

  I nodded my understanding. "Yeah."

  "Plus, friendships are more resilient than romantic relationships. I know that you and Zoë will work things out on your own. But this—" She motioned to the car and our immediate surroundings. "This you need help with."

  I had to laugh. It was a weak laugh, but it felt good nonetheless. "You're probably right about that."

  "But if you want to know what I think . . ." Her voice trailed off. It wasn't a question, but she was still waiting for my permission to continue.

  "I do," I confirmed.

  "I think you're both wrong."

  "So she told you?"

  Sophie nodded. "She called yesterday. Obviously I don't condone her sleeping with a married man. But I also don't condone you taking on the assignment or telling his wife. It's one thing if someone comes to you asking for that information, it's quite another for you to deliver it unsolicited."

  "I know," I agreed softly. "I learned that the hard way."

  Sophie looked at me, surprised by my concurrence. "Are you going to tell Zoë that?"

  "Eventually. Like you said, one thing at a time. Besides, I don't think she'd even answer the phone right now. I figured I'd give her some time to cool down. We didn't exactly part ways amicably."

  Sophie laughed. "Well, we could always do another stakeout at her place after this one."

  I flashed a faint smile. "Maybe."

  We spent the next hour and a half talking and listening to the radio. Sophie told me more stories about her honeymoon in Greece and recounted details from the wedding that I'd missed because I was stuck with my head in an MRI machine. I could tell she was trying to distract me from the fact that it was almost eleven at night and Jamie still hadn't shown. It was only partially working.

  Finally, at 11:25, I saw the familiar headlights of Jamie's Jaguar turn the corner and his car pull into the garage. My pulse instantly quickened.

  Sophie reached out and clasped her hand around my wrist. "This is it," she said, excitement building in her voice.

  I wasn't sure I could go through with this. I had agreed to come on the stakeout, but I hadn't necessarily agreed to go upstairs. What if he said no? What if he slammed the door in my face?

  Then I thought of the alternative: driving home now, after we'd been sitting here for nearly four hours, without even trying. And I figured getting rejected at Jamie's door was far less lame.

  "Okay," Sophie commanded as the garage door started to close, "it's showtime."

  I took a deep breath and placed my hand on the doorknob. My throat was suddenly feeling scratchy and tight,
and I wondered if I would even be able to get any words out if I did manage to get out of this car and follow the plan.

  "Do you want the script?" Sophie asked, holding out the crumpled cocktail napkin.

  I rolled my eyes. "I don't think so."

  I stepped out of the car and closed the door behind me. With unsteady feet and uneven breath, I walked the few paces to the front door of the building. I removed the key from my pocket and placed it gingerly in the lock. For a moment, I hoped the door wouldn't open. That maybe for some reason the HOA had changed the locks. But the key turned smoothly, and I pressed forward.

  I turned back to Sophie, and she gave me an enthusiastic thumbs-up through the front windshield. I waved back awkward before walking into the building and heading toward the stairwell. Jamie's unit was only three floors up from the garage, but he almost always took the elevator. Usually because he was carrying his heavy laptop bag with him, or a suitcase from his latest business trip, or, until recently, a bag full of stuff from an extended stay at my place.

  I climbed the two flights to the second floor and waited in the stairwell, peering through the small window in the door for Jamie to pass by. My heartbeat was racing now, pumping out blood faster than my veins could keep up.

  And that's when the panic started to set in.

  What on earth was I doing here? Did I actually think this was going to work? That a simple apology was going to change things? But when I thought about the small, infinitesimal chance that Jamie might actually take me back, that he might actually forgive me, somehow it all seemed worth the risk.

  I heard a faint beep indicating the elevator's arrival, and my breath caught in my chest. I had a feeling I wouldn't be able to take a real breath until all of this was over. And depending on the outcome, I knew there was a chance I might never feel the satisfaction of a true deep breath again.

  The footsteps were audible now—coming from the direction of the elevator—and then I heard Jamie's voice. I figured he was probably on his phone, talking into his Bluetooth earpiece as he always does. I used to make fun of him. Because often when he was in need of a haircut, his thick, wavy brown hair would cover the earpiece completely and he looked as if he were talking to himself. Like a crazy person on Hollywood Boulevard.

  The thought brought a nostalgic smile to my face. As did the sound of his voice.

  God, I really did miss him.

  As the footsteps and voice got closer, I could start to make out what he was saying. He was telling one of his really bad jokes. I remember he'd told it to me on one of our first dates. And then I had to listen to him repeat it over and over again at parties and group dinners and work functions for the past year. And every time, I had to pretend as if I hadn't heard it before.

  But somehow now it was funny again. And I found myself laughing quietly to myself as he got to the punch line, remembering the way his face always looked when he delivered that last line. His eyebrows raised, his lips curled into an expectant smile. It was beyond adorable.

  And then suddenly I realized that I wasn't the only one laughing. My body froze as I pressed my ear to the door. So hard that I thought I might push it open. But then I heard it again.

  A second voice. A second set of footsteps. A second person.

  And it was distinctly female.

  I pulled my ear away from the door and smashed my face against the glass window. And that's when I saw them.

  Both of them. Jamie and a woman. I couldn't see her face, because by the time I pulled my ear away from the door, they had already passed by the stairwell and were on their way to Jamie's front door. But I could see her hair, and I could see the back of her dress. Both nauseatingly sexy.

  I pressed my face harder against the glass as I strained to follow them with my eyes. But unfortunately, Jamie's unit was on the same wall as this door, limiting my field of vision. The last thing I was able to see was Jamie's hand as it touched the small of her back and led her inside.

  The world around me was suddenly in black and white. There was no more color. I blinked rapidly, but it didn't help. I felt like I was stuck in one of those Pl-style photographs that John had delivered to my office earlier today.

  Oh, God, had that really been today? Had all of this happened to me in one fucking day? The universe couldn't possibly hate me that much. Or maybe it could. Maybe this was all a game. And I was just an unfortunate contestant in some type of cosmic reality show. Like those people who audition for American Idol and honestly think they can sing. Meanwhile, everyone at home is laughing their asses off. Maybe God was laughing His ass off at me right now. Sitting on His couch with all His heavenly buddies, drinking beer and ridiculing the fact that I think I can survive in this world, when clearly I don't have a clue.

  I could barely feel my feet as I stumbled back down the stairs and outside to Sophie's car.

  "So? What happened?" she asked anxiously before my whole body was even in the front seat.

  "Just drive," I replied numbly as I leaned back against the headrest and closed my eyes.

  But the engine didn't start. The car didn't move. Sophie just sat there, staring at the side of my face. "Jen," she commanded sternly, "tell me what happened. What did he say?"

  "You were wrong," I said, feeling the moisture start to sting the backs of my eyelids. "It really is too late."

  31

  the last person on earth

  Sophie tried her best to console me on the way home. She even offered to let me sleep on her couch again so I wouldn't have to be alone. But it was no use. I was inconsolable.

  "At least let me come in and stay the night here," she said as she pulled up to the curb in front of my building.

  I shook my head. "No, I'll be fine, Sophie. I just want to be alone."

  But that was a lie. I didn't want to be alone. I couldn't even fathom the thought of it. Which is why I didn't actually go home. After Sophie dropped me off, I slipped down the stairwell into the garage and headed straight for my car. As soon as I was out onto the street, I pulled my cell phone out of my bag and navigated to the address book.

  I didn't have the heart to tell Sophie the truth. That it wasn't about wanting to be alone. It was about not wanting to be with her. It wasn't personal. There was only one person I could talk to about this. And it was the last person in the world I ever thought I would call in a time of crisis, let alone a relationship crisis.

  "Hello?" the male voice answered after two rings.

  "Dad?" My voice was weak, frail, probably not like he had ever heard it.

  Alarm immediately registered in his tone. "Jenny? What's wrong? What's the matter? Is it your mother?"

  I held the phone tightly against to my ear. "No," I assured him. "Mom is fine. But I need to talk. Can you meet me?"

  There was silence on the other end of the phone. No doubt a stunned one. When was the last time his daughter ever called him up at eleven-thirty at night to "talk"? Or better yet, when was the first time?

  "Of course," he finally responded. "I'll meet you in the lobby of the Huntley Hotel."

  "Okay," I replied, flipping my car into a U-turn to compensate for the new direction. "I can be there in seven minutes."

  I drove in silence. No radio. No cell phone conversation. Nothing. The streets were dead. And the stillness of the deserted night seemed to add an extra level of eeriness to the unusual quiet in my car. As if the world around me were taking pause, stopping to acknowledge the sheer rarity of such an occasion.

  Jennifer Hunter, driving through the night to speak to her previously estranged father about her broken heart.

  Definitely something you don't see every day.

  But the truth is, he knew a thing or two about betraying loved ones, messing up relationships, regrets. He was really the only person who made sense right now.

  What did Sophie or Zoë or even John know about stuff like that? They didn't. So they couldn't help. Because they couldn't even begin to understand what I was feeling right now.


  My problems were officially out of their league.

  I cruised through every stoplight, passing only a handful of moving cars along the way, until I finally turned right onto Second Avenue and pulled into the valet station of the Huntley Hotel.

  It had always been one of my favorite hotels in Santa Monica. Set back two blocks from the ocean, it was sort of a hidden gem. While most L.A. visitors opted for the beachfront properties like the Loews or Shutters or Casa del Mar, the Huntley's lack of beach-going tourists made it feel slightly more upscale. More exclusive.

  I handed my keys to the valet attendant and headed inside the pristine, modern lobby. My eyes swiveled, searching for a familiar face. I spotted my dad reclining awkwardly on a striped leather chair that looked like a hollowed-out mushroom cap.

  He struggled to push himself to a standing position and walked over to me.

  As we came face-to-face, I could tell that he wasn't sure how to greet me. This was a very unorthodox event in the history of our relationship, and proper protocol had yet to be established. But I didn't hesitate. I fell into him and buried my head against his chest. My dad responded immediately by wrapping his arms around my body and squeezing tightly.

  As much as I thought it would feel uncomfortable, foreign even, it was the exact opposite. I felt right at home. As though I had been waiting seventeen years to do exactly this. And the strange part was, I always assumed a moment like this would come after some kind of unexpected reconciliation between us. Where he apologized for everything that he'd ever done to our family and swore on his life that he had changed and become a better person.

  But now that the moment was here, I realized that it wasn't him who had changed. It was me. And all this time, I had worried that Jamie might be just another version of my father. But in actuality, I was the one who had lied. I was the one who had broken my promise.

  I was the replica.

  And that's how I knew that my father was the only person in this city who wouldn't judge me right now.

  The tears started to fall and soak into my dad's unadorned gray T-shirt. He bent and gently kissed the top of my head. "Shhh," he cooed. "It's okay. Let's go sit down and talk."