by Jamie Shupak
“Geeeeeeeeeet off of me!” I scream.
JR comes flying around the corner from the bedroom just as I’m unraveling the black lace underwear between my index fingers and thumbs from each hand.
“They must be your …”
“No! Don’t you dare feed me that bullshit right now. Are they Courtney’s? Tell me. TELL ME NOW. WHEN WAS SHE HERE?” I pause. I wait. I think. “Hold on a second—are they someone else’s? How many girls are you fucking?” He says nothing, so I keep going.
“Speak!” I can see his wheels turning. He knows the jig is up. “Tell me, JR. When was she here, in my home, fucking my fiancé?”
“G.”
“Don’t you dare ‘G’ me right now! These are a fucking medium. I know every pair of underwear I have, and surely none of them are under the couch or a fucking size medium. You’ve been looking at my ass for ten years and you know I have never worn a size medium anything.” So much for never bringing up her ample junk in the trunk.
“G, stop. Listen …”
The look. The tone. The balls.
“No, you listen. I’ve waited all day for you to explain what the hell went on last night. To tell me that you love her. To tell me you’ve been cheating on me. To tell me anything. I’m done waiting for your goddamn answers. I’m done listening to your bullshit stories. It’s time for you to listen to me.”
Suddenly a lion was roaring from within my chest, drowning all his nonsense out. A voice bellowed in me like nothing I had ever heard before. It was so loud that I actually clamped my hand over my mouth for a second to ensure a growl didn’t come out. This thong—this fucking medium black lace thong—is what I didn’t even know I was waiting for. I had been weaponless in this battle, and now, I was armed and confident.
“It’s over, JR. We’re over. I hope you and Courtney live a long, beautiful life together. I am done. Last night was the last time I ever sleep in this home.”
“G, please.”
I don’t respond. There’s nothing more to say. I just stand there, and let the intense, vibrating silence fill the room. Hear me roar, you dick.
As we’re standing there staring at each other, I realize there is a point in most fights when a yawning chasm opens up, and you realize what you thought was a mere crack is actually a deep crevice. That’s where we are now: standing on our opposing edges, looking down. Except this time that crevice had become the Grand Canyon, and I had no idea what had caused the earth to open so widely between us. I start thinking about this morning, when the only thing more unthinkable than staying with JR was leaving him. Now the only thing more unthinkable than leaving is staying. I grab my phone and my bag and walk right out the door. The door slams behind me, cutting Zelda off, midbark.
I’m shaking as I get out onto Hudson Street. I unlock my phone and go to favorites, clawing at Gemma’s name on the list. “Ge-Ge-Gem …?” I sputter into the phone. “Meet me at T-t-t-tortilla Flats. Mama needs a drink.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
My head is pounding. From the tequila, from the fight with JR, from the shrill voice of my boss, Maryann, who’s interrogating me, and rightly so.
“Why did you take your shirt off in the Boom Boom Room?! You shouldn’t even be in the Boom Boom Room at four o’clock in the morning—that’s when you’re supposed to be arriving here for work!”
I say nothing. She turns to her boss, the general manager of the station.
“Am I right, Joe?”
Joe’s got a presence as intimidating as his gut is big. He doesn’t look like he’s missed a meal in all his fifty-odd years. Sarah, the head of HR, is here too, but luckily she keeps pretty quiet and just dutifully takes notes. For the past hour, the other two have been taking turns with their jabs and rhetorical questions, which is making me dizzier than I already am. It’s like a Jack Bauer-style interrogation from 24. I’m waiting for one of them to whip out a pocketknife and start stabbing me in the thigh to get me to talk. I’m nauseous—have been for two days. I can’t remember the last time I was this hungover. My brain feels like a sponge left out in the sun to harden and fry. And my back—god, how my back hurts.
“Am I right, Guiliana? You called out sick but weren’t sick at all—is that correct?”
I don’t answer.
“Eric announced to our one million viewers that you were out sick and now there’s a goddamn video of you on Banter … in your neon-pink bra?” I hate how she emphasizes neon-pink, like she’s the fashion police. Joan Rivers and her Joan Rangers would have a field day with Maryann’s gray suit and ill-fitting pink button-down shirt.
Joe subs in while Maryann catches her breath. “Do you know how bad this looks for you … for us? You know I had a lady from Brooklyn write in and ask if she could send some chicken noodle soup to the station for you? She had her goddamn nephew write the email for her. Jesus, Guiliana.”
In my head, I’m watching a Polaroid take shape. First, an outline of my body, then slowly my jeans come into focus, followed by the pale white of my stomach. My face remains a blur, covered by a brush stroke of yellow. Oh wait, that’s my raggedy-ass T-shirt covering my face for two seconds before I toss it on the bar next to me. I vaguely remember a guy telling me he was a big fan, and asking to take a picture … did he ask me to say hi to the camera? Maybe Gemma knows. I gotta get out of there and call Gemma. I also need to call my mom, my agent, and my brothers. They’ve all called me at least three times in the past twenty-four hours, and I’ve ignored every single call. I just don’t know what to say—or rather, I’m too scared to say it out loud, because when I do, then it will mean it’s true.
At least I don’t have to waste time telling Angel. Forget that Banter is his homepage and that he follows them on Twitter. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him walk by a minute ago, so he’s very much downloaded on the situation now. So I’ll start with Mom—she’s the easy one. I’ll cry, she’ll cry, then we’ll make plans for her to come down from Connecticut and take me out for some retail therapy. Then I’ll get her to tell Dad for me, because he’s going to be the tougher one. Hopefully Mom softens that blow a little bit for me. I can’t tell Richard and Adam yet because they’re going to want to come and kill JR, just as any good brothers would. Though if Gemma tells Luke everything, then that may be a moot point. Either way, I’ll wait on them. I do need to get my agent Jason on the phone before he loses his mind. But first, I have to get out of this office. From inside my bag on the floor, I can hear my phone vibrating against my tin of lip balm like it’s about to explode. As I think about the volume of emails, texts, and calls I have to return, the nausea pains start to feel like a boa constrictor wrapping itself around my stomach, suffocating its passageways, wanting to kill me.
And they’re still berating me.
“Are you even listening to us?”
I nod.
“Last time Banter wrote about you and JR pitching a reality show to the cable networks, it took us a month to stop the swirling rumors that you were leaving NYNN. Wasn’t that enough?”
I nod again and try to look as sorry as possible. Not that much of a stretch.
“What happened? You need to be the star of the blogosphere again? What do you have, attention issues?”
Attention issues? ME? I wish I could slap Maryann right out of her ugly pointy-toe kitten heels for that low blow. Bitch. If she only knew what had happened to me and why I was so upset. Obviously she didn’t watch the Banter video or she would have heard me say, right before I took my shirt off, MY FIANCÉ IS FUCKING HIS ASSISTANT!
“Yes, you’re right. What happened last night will never happen again.” Of course it won’t because a) I’m never drinking alcohol again, and b) I’m never leaving the house without wearing seven layers of hard-to-unzip clothing, and c) I’m never going to find out that JR was sleeping with his assistant again because I’m never going to see JR again, period.
But it’s not the time for indignation. I take a big gulp of the tension-filled air and offer up a solution
. “How about this: I know a few people over at Banter. Why don’t I call one of them and see if they’ll take the post down?”
Actually, I don’t know anyone over there. Eric might, but I sure don’t. Even if he does, no way they’re going to take it down. Media mogul Jake Spears created that site for one thing and one thing alone: pageviews. And let’s be honest, after the New York Toast tagged me the city’s “Trans-It Girl,” they’ve been after me. This story is gold for them—they got a whole month’s worth of clicks in one week when someone started an anonymous Tumblr about my outfits called What the Fuck Is Guiliana Layne Wearing? Now they reblog it every day with their own set of jabs Photoshopped in a font that looks like a kid scribbling in white crayon. (The latest, from last week when I wore what I thought was a cute neutral-colored jumper: “We all love to be comfortable at work, but puke-colored khaki pajamas—really, Guiliana?”) I have a feeling this plan I’ve devised is going to be about as successful as busting a Uey right before the tollbooths to the Verrazano Bridge, but offering to call and get this video taken down is all I can do to get out of this war zone before I throw up on my bosses.
The three head honchos exchange looks and whispers as I try to quiet the bass still thudding away in my head. Unce, unce, unce. If they only knew what JR did to me. That my family is broken. That I’m broken. And homeless. Even though I’m crashing with Gemma and she says I can stay as long as I want, let’s be real. I’m sharing her body wash and toothpaste and I’m even wearing her clothes. I glance down to my yet-to-be-released Rachel Crow ensemble. On any other day I’d be ecstatic to have this glamorous look from stylist to the stars–cum–fashion designer on, defining me as a major trendsetter—but today it only means one thing. My life is a mess.
Unce, unce, unce.
“Okay, Guiliana, this is your last chance—one more negative Banter item about you, one tweet with your name and something unsavory and unrelated to the traffic, and you’re fired. You understand?”
For a second it feels as though the boa constrictor has loosened its grip, and I nod furiously as I reach for my bag on the floor.
“Now go get that post taken down and then go home and get some sleep. You look worse than that train wreck this morning at Penn Station.”
I keep my head down as I head for the door. “And eat something,” Joe calls after me. “Are you losing weight? I don’t want the viewers writing in about how you need to eat a cheeseburger.”
A cheeseburger. What I wouldn’t give to be able to keep down a cheeseburger right now. My fiancé cheated on me with his assistant, whom he’s apparently in love with, I’m moving out of the apartment we’ve shared for almost five years now, and they’re worried about me eating a fucking cheeseburger? They’re worried what Banter is saying about me? One more peep and I’m fired? All I want to do is crawl under the covers and wallow in my hungover pity, but there’s no time for that now. For the first time in three days, I have a plan that I am in total control of: Get that video taken down. If there is one thing in this world I can do, it’s sweet-talk a guy into getting him to do what I want. When I would convince Adam and Richard to play the game I wanted in the backyard growing up, my Mom would always say, “You’ve got those boys around your finger, G.”
Mom—shoot! I take out my iPhone as soon as I get out of the building and have full service again. I slip my sunglasses on and breathe in the fresh air. The traffic on Ninth Avenue is deafening—car horns, people shouting at one another for taxis, delivery trucks thumping over potholes, and bikers screaming at pedestrians clogging the lane dedicated to them. The home screen on my phone is no less chaotic, alerting me to forty-seven emails, five missed calls, twelve text messages, and fifty Twitter mentions. I have to get this post taken down.
I pull up the Banter post on my phone. I need the byline so I know who to contact, but as soon as the page loads, the video starts playing. That song. That fucking song. JR’s favorite jam—everyone’s favorite jam—is emanating out of my phone like I’m holding a freakin’ personal Robin Thicke concert on Ninth Avenue.
“I know you want it/You’re a good girl/Can’t let it get past me/You’re far from plastic/Talk about getting blasted/I hate these blurred lines …”
So do I right now, Robin. Scroll up, scroll up, scroll up. My sweaty fingers are leaving greasy claw marks on the screen. I get to the top of the post and there I am, in that old T-shirt I left the apartment in. My hair looks as sweaty as it does when I leave spin class, tied up in a high, tight side ponytail. There’s a close-up, and for a second I forget what I’m looking at and think about how cute I look singing along, arms waving high above my head.
“I know you want it/You’re a good girl/The way you grab me/Must wanna get nasty/Go ahead, get at me …”
I hit pause as my shirt goes flying. I know what I look like in my neon pink bra. How do I pause this fucking thing? I need the byline. Who wrote this post? I’m scrolling, scrolling, and bingo! Ben Abrams. Ben sounds like such a nice name. Too bad he’s a total dick. I scroll further down the page. Does this dick have an email? Yep. Click here to email [email protected]. Tips! I can’t with the sliminess. I have a better idea though, a more direct way to get to him.
I open Twitter, search his name, and there he is: @BanteringBen. Bio: Let’s Banter. What a creep. But he has 104,645 followers—almost triple what I have. And of course he’s following me, I should have known. I write myself a mental note: Pay more attention to who follows you on Twitter. I follow him back so I can message him privately. Now, what to say in 140 characters or less?
Hi Ben, it’s Guiliana. No, that’s not going to work. My name takes up too many characters and he already knows who’s messaging him. Hi Ben, Eric and I are huge fans. We read your posts regularly. Random Q: are you in the office today?
Perfect, 35 characters to spare. I hold my finger over the send button, knowing very well the future of my career might hang in the balance of this message. I reread it three times. Okay, send in three … two … one. I look down Ninth Avenue towards home. My old home, with JR and Zelda and all our stuff, is just a few blocks away. And my temporary home with Gemma and all her stuff is just a few blocks west of there.
I turn east.
I need to find a new home. I need a new apartment with all new stuff. But first I need to call Jason back and tell him about the ultimatum and see if he can pacify Maryann, Joe, and Sarah until I talk to someone at Banter. As I’m about to tap on his name to dial his office, a new message appears.
One new message from Twitter.
Direct message from: @BanteringBen: GUILIANA, HI. GLAD YOU AND ERIC ENJOY THE SITE. HE AND I GO WAY BACK. AND YEAH, WILL BE IN THE OFFICE ANOTHER HOUR OR SO. EVERYTHING OK?
Hallelujah, he responded! And so quickly. Too bad he’s such a dick, he sounds kind of nice, and he didn’t even bring up the video. But man, am I going to use that video to my advantage. He thinks I have sex appeal—just wait until I show him real sex appeal. I’ll do whatever it takes to get my job security back. I toggle back into Google and type “Banter office, NYC” into the search bar. I throw my arm in the air to hail the next cab coming down Ninth Avenue and jump in. “Elizabeth and Prince, please. As fast as you can!”
CHAPTER EIGHT
I click the bright orange button next to the door that says OPEN and it does just that, sliding to the left like something out of Back to the Future, revealing a space as bright as an operating room. I might just need the Ray-Ban sunglasses that are holding my hair back like a headband to do their actual job and shield my sensitive, hungover eyes from all this light.
“Yes?”
The young hipster girl behind the receptionist desk blows her wispy, side-swept bangs out of her eyes and watches me take in the vast newsroom. She reminds me of Courtney—they both have those long, ridiculous bangs. Gross. Behind her are floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides of the room. The remaining wall is covered with giant, flashy flat-screen monitors, all tuned to various news outlets. CNN, ABC, NBC. I see t
he faces of my competitors. But what’s on that one in the middle? I squint to try and decipher the cascade of text, scrolling down the main monitor. Oh. My. God. It’s the Twitter feed of every newscaster in New York City. It’s like TMZ, but the stars are people like … me. Are they freakin’ serious? I think as I take it all in.
Just past reception, there’s a central pod of desks that looks more like a trading floor than a blog office. Occupying the pod are several pairs of black-rimmed glasses buried into Mac keyboards, all typing furiously. Above them, screens monitor Banter’s top stories. I’d heard about this—Maryann brought it up at a meeting a couple months ago. That as a post gets more clicks, it moves to the top of the list. It was a way to make their writers more competitive, she told us, like the endless favorites they get on their tweets aren’t enough motivation.
“Um, excuse me. Can I help you?”
I realize I haven’t said anything to Courtney’s clone yet. Actually, I’m not sure what to say—I’d planned on practicing something in the cab ride over here, but I’d been too busy replying to texts and emails to even make a real plan. Now, under the bright lights, storming into Banter’s office and wielding demands didn’t seem like the best idea. I scan the room, hoping something will come to me quickly. A group of guys is in the far corner of the room, surrounding something that I can’t quite make out from here. Oh, but wait.
“Is that a Ping-Pong table?”
“Yes.” Fake Courtney looks annoyed. “Excuse me, who are you here to see?”
I am about to say Bantering Ben, but I realize that’s not his real name. I fumble with my phone to find what is.
“I … one sec.” I flash her a smile and she blows her bangs out of her eyes again in response. I open the post again to get Ben’s last name and automatically, the damn video starts playing again. I fumble with the volume on the side of my phone to turn down Robin Thicke’s sensual voice, but not before I see the lightbulb go off in the homewrecker lookalike’s head.