Transit Girl

by Jamie Shupak

  I push her away laughing, and she heads out the door. But not without one last word to the wise: “You better shave those legs.” Shit, I better. “And everything else, too.”

  I am so not ready for this whole single girl thing. And I’ve got other things to take care of first. Like texting Ben back.

  ALMOST FINISHED THE POST, NO NEED FOR PLAN B. WAIT TIL YOU READ THIS GEM. AND BACK FEELS GREAT IN MY NEW COMFY BED, THANKS FOR CHECKIN.

  CHAPTER 15

  I had sex last night.

  Oh my god. I had sex last night.

  The thought shoots through my brain like a slingshot—fling!—triggered by the opening of my eyes. I wake up facing the white brick wall that one side of my bed is pushed up against—and thank goodness for that—because it allows me time to marinate on this idea. I had sex last night. Sex with another man. A man who’s still in my bed—and even though I can’t see him I can feel the warmth radiating from his body. And I can hear him breathing. Not snoring like JR—or even Zelda—would, but breathing peacefully.

  I could get used to this. This feels good. It’s as refreshing as birds chirping outside the window on the first morning of spring.

  Like a computer running through settings during startup, I take inventory of myself with my left hand. I run it from my hair, which feels knotty and potentially hideous-looking, to my eyelashes, which are dried up with mascara from the night before. Do I look like a raccoon? Probably. I then trace my hand down to my shoulders to my leg, and I quickly realize that I’m naked. Let’s be clear, I didn’t sleep naked because I thought it was sexy or I thought it would keep him around. Sure, I was wasted, but I slept naked because all the clothes I sleep in are sweats from college. The pants are baggy, some have holes in the crotch, and the T-shirt is either one from Richard’s or Adam’s old basketball leagues or from a Greek Week event at UCLA. Gemma says I need to get new sleepwear—“something sexy, something cute and tight”—but I haven’t had the time yet. As if the texting just to get to this point wasn’t enough work. And while she may be right—that my sweats are gross—they’re comfortable. And hey, at least I shaved.

  I try to maneuver my tousled bedhead-y hair into some kind of ponytail or topknot so that I look a little more like the G on TV that he knows, but now look what I’ve done. Uh-oh. He’s awake. Oh. My. God. He’s awake. Should I roll over? What am I going to say? Is he naked too? Wait, he better be naked too. Is he expecting something … more … this morning?

  “Guiliana?” He’s whispering. I love the rasp of a guy’s voice in the morning. “You awake?”

  “Mmm hmm …” I mutter, pretending to sound half-asleep … and sexy? I have no idea what I’m doing. He grabs for my waist, and his touch makes me smile so big the muscles in my cheeks are wondering what the hell just happened. He inches closer to me. As his warm body presses up against mine, the relief washes over me—as fast as I downed that tequila last night—that yes, he’s naked too, all six-foot-four of him.

  It feels good to have a guy in my bed again, if only I could remember exactly what happened last night. Every time I close my eyes, my brain flashes to him tossing me around on the bed and kissing me everywhere. And I mean everywhere. I keep my eyes shut and soak in the memory. I try to wrap my hands around the back of his neck but he wants to be in full control, so he pushes them above my head and, cupping my wrists in his grip, holds them there. We kiss. It’s slow but passionate. I know it’s only been a few weeks since JR and I kissed, but it’s been years since we’ve kissed like that.

  I could keep my eyes closed forever, savoring the feeling of his mouth on mine. “That was fun last night,” he’s still whispering, now directly into my left ear. “You’re a lot of fun, G.”

  I giggle. And I can’t stop smiling. “You’re fun too, Greg.” I wince and make sure I’m saying the right name. I’m so used to saying JR.

  “Listen, I’d love to stay but I told my boys I’d meet them to watch the game.” He starts to pull away, and even though I’ve heard my friends tell similar stories countless times—about the shameful hit-and-run—I don’t even care. I feel alive. I feel liberated.

  “No worries, I told Gemma I’d help her with this thing today anyway.” Thing? What thing? There’s no thing. I roll over as he gets out of bed, rifling through the pile of clothes on the floor to find his boxers first, then jeans, a gray V-neck undershirt, and finally what looked like a blue J. Crew button-down. God, what have I been doing with some dirty, hairy hipster all these years? I love everything about Greg’s whole look. The only look I’m not sure of is my own. Am I supposed to watch him get dressed? I want to look in the mirror so I can see what he sees. I probably look like a train wreck. And do I stay lying down here and just say goodbye? Will he kiss me goodbye?

  Oh yes he will. He leans over and plants one right on my closed lips and smiles as he says, “You’re somethin’ else. I’d love to do this again sometime soon.”

  “Yeah, sure. Call me,” I say, in a tone so confident I even surprise myself.

  He lets himself out as I lay there smiling, and as soon as the door shuts, I leap up and throw on sweats from my bottom drawer. I’m safe in these ripped old things now. I grab a water bottle out of the fridge, my phone, my keys hanging next to the door, and sprint the flight of steps to Gemma’s. I fling open her door, startling her, and she jumps up from her couch like she’s being robbed. “I did it, Gemma.” I’m screaming. I’m smiling. I’m holding my arms above my head in victory, like Rocky at the top of the Philadelphia Museum of Art steps. “I got laid.”

  She runs over and tackles me to the floor, and the two of us are laughing and crying in simultaneous disbelief and excitement. “Tell me everyyyyyyything, G. Everything everything everything!”

  I crane my neck towards the bathroom, thinking V-Dub must be in the shower or something. “Wait, where’s …?”

  She cuts me off midquestion. “Don’t ask. We got in a fight last night, and he went home. I need to hear your story first, though.”

  I’m concerned, but I continue anyway. “So when you dropped me off at Tortilla Flats he was already there sitting at the bar. He looked amazing—and drunk. But so was I.”

  “Yeah, remember you tripped over the cobblestones when we got out of the cab? And you wanted to text Angel and tell him you were going to get laid, but I told you not to.”

  “Ha-ha, I do remember. Sort of. Anyway, I didn’t need to drink any more, but he had already ordered two shots of Patron for each of us and had them waiting on the bar. And you can’t let that stuff go to waste. So I go to kiss him on the cheek as I sit on the stool next to him, but he goes for my mouth.”

  “Wait, your mouth? When you were saying hi?”

  “Yes! He straight-up kissed me on the lips right then and there. Then when I sat down he literally grabbed my legs and pivoted my body around so we were facing each other. I’m so much smaller than him, so I’m like, in between his legs now. We take the first shot and he leans in to kiss me.”

  “Right at the bar at Tortilla Flats? G, I’m dying.”

  “YOU’RE dying? Gem, I was freaking out, but I was so drunk I just went with it. We kissed more, took the other shot, and he says, should we get outta here? Now I’m freaking ’cause I’ve never taken a guy home before. I’m thinking—shit—what underwear and bra do I have on, what’s on my couch, what do I smell like—you name it. I say sure, and he follows me out, and right next door into my apartment.”

  “And then what?”

  “I put the light on, to throw my stuff down and whatever—that’s what you do when you walk into an apartment, right?—and he’s like, why’d you do that? He shuts off the light and throws me on the bed. For the first time in years I get in bed not giving a shit about where my bag, shoes, makeup, phone, anything lands.” I still have hours of sex to tell her about, but my phone interrupts us, buzzing and vibrating.

  One next text message from Angel.

  SO DID YOU SMUSH HIM OR WHAT?

  “Just Ange
l,” I say, laughing at the old-school Jersey Shore reference. He still loves him some Snooki and the Situation, who, when they lived as roommates, tagged the one private room downstairs the Smush Room. That was where they’d have sex with the randoms they brought back from the club. “I’ll text him back later.” But while I’m there, I click open my email. I’m waiting for Bantering Ben to get back to me with his edits to my redemption post. “Shit, I have a Google alert. Gem, oh my god. It’s Banter. The post is up.” I click the link and she shoves her face next to mine like that photo on her fridge that says “two Gs in a pod.” Together, we read:

  “Redemption” by Guiliana Layne

  So, wedding planning seemed like a nightmare. Once the haze died down from the made-for-TV proposal in Paris, it was all business and no fun going forward. Our every decision—which dresses, which colors—could widen the gulf between my girlfriends. Our broke colleagues would have to worry about what to bring as a gift. Napkin rings always seem to be a big cause for concern, for some reason. All this, just to marry the man with a collection of sunglasses so extensive, Stevie Wonder would be jealous? He wore them at all hours of the day—yes, even at night—to the point where you’d think he was hiding something.

  Turns out, he was.

  Which is why—in part—you saw that awesomely hot video of me tearing up the dance floor and then, more famously, tearing off my shirt in the Boom Boom Room a few weeks ago. Someone get Pharrell on line one for me, I should definitely do the rap in the next Robin Thicke hit, right?

  Wrong. (I was also kidding about the wedding planning. I imagine it could be enjoyable, with the right person.) But that was my September. My life felt like a soda can that someone else had been secretly shaking, that then exploded. As you may have noticed on the morning news, my already petite frame shrunk to rather frail proportions because, just as I had lost the ability to think clearly, I also couldn’t eat. But that wasn’t my worst problem. I couldn’t sleep, which was torturous because all I wanted to do was escape the pain that was literally wearing me down to the bones. Each night I would eventually pass out from pure exhaustion, but only for the few moments before my alarm would go off. And at the time there was no sound more devastating. Not because I had to go to work—no, I love NYNN—but because I just didn’t want to be awake. That meant it was real. That the guy I’d been in love with since I was nineteen years old had fallen in love with someone else—a girl he worked with, someone I knew well.

  I was broken.

  My life had been derailed like one of the New Jersey Transit trains I report on each morning. And like those trains, it only takes a split second for everything to go careening off course. But it takes what feels like forever to get back on track. What are you supposed to do when you realize the person you thought had your back is actually sticking daggers in it? When you realize the person you put so much faith in everyday isn’t being faithful? When you realize the person you lean on and look to for so much strength isn’t strong enough to tell the truth?

  The correct answer here is not to do what I did—and have your antics grace the pages of both Banter and the Toast in the same week.

  The thing is, I was never taught how to comprehend these kinds of things, so I reacted with my emotions. Not a smart move when you’re homeless, hopeless, and single—three things I had no experience with or desire to be.

  I moved out of my apartment and am now following the advice of a very wise man: to pretend that I am driving without a rearview mirror. As a traffic reporter, I would never advise this. In Single Land however, it’s a totally different story.

  The road ahead, like rush hour on the BQE, is going to be long and frustrating at times, and requires patience and strategic maneuvering at others. I already had a bit of a setback this week when I learned that my ex and The Girl Who Shall Not Be Named were not only officially dating, but also officially cohabitating.

  Yes, I moved out. She moved in.

  The news was appalling, albeit unsurprising. It was the proverbial kick when I was already down. But I didn’t cry; I have no tears left.

  As I tell NYNN viewers on a rainy day, you need the wipers, the headlights, the whole nine yards—you’ll need to be prepared for all the elements. From the sounds of it, this whole dating thing isn’t going to be much different. I hope those same viewers can excuse my brief lapse in judgment—and sobriety—and wish me luck in getting around town. We’re already two-thirds of the way there, too. That homeless, hopeless, and single girl already found a place to live and a little bit of faith … thanks to the advice of that very wise man—my dad. For now, he’s the main man in my life.

  CHAPTER 16

  I’m not just an on-time person; I am always early. Even if I try to be late, try to wait until the last possible second to leave to go somewhere, I’m still early. I can’t help it. I think I get it from my mom, who has never been late for a single event in her life. And because I’m this way, punctuality in others is a big deal for me. Since I have the kind of job where I need to walk in the door every day at the exact same time and be ready to go on air at the exact same time, I never understand how or why people are late. It’s also my job to get people to work, school, or wherever they need to be on time. So me and lateness do not go together. I think it’s rude and selfish. JR was notoriously late for everything. It was always the joke between us that I would think he was leaving me at the altar the day of our wedding, but really he would just be running late. That joke is no longer funny. And neither is the fact that here I am, standing in the entrance to Corsino, waiting for Ben. I called him right after Gem and I read the Banter post, asking him why he didn’t send it to me first—with edits, or just to review it again—and all he could do was rave about the reviews, and the clicks of course. Pageviews are this guy’s whole life. Or at least it seems that way. How does he even sleep at night? Anyway, he said he’s been dying to try this place right by my apartment and asked if I would meet him there for dinner. Not only do I need a good night’s sleep before going back to work for the first time tomorrow, but I feel like dinner means date, and I’m not into him like that. So we agreed on lunch. Plus I sort of feel like I have to say yes to this guy, ’cause who knows what he might write about me if I don’t.

  But I feel like I have “SEX” written all over my face; not even a shower could wash that off. Not that I care, either. When I looked in the mirror before I left, I saw a sort of glow in my cheeks that I’ve only recently been able to conjure up after spin class. I feel like I’m floating three feet above the earth on a magic carpet, and every time I close my eyes, I flash back to Greg throwing me down on the bed, or his smooth, ripped chest rubbing against mine. Just as I’m savoring this moment, my phone goes off.

  One new text message from Bantering Ben.

  SORRY, G. 3 MINUTES AWAY.

  I don’t even reply. Three minutes? Weird, but also kind of endearing that he doesn’t say five. I’m shaking my head at him as he walks in the door, and he knows I’m already teasing him about the “three minutes” text.

  “I know, I know. I can’t use traffic as an excuse for being late to meet a traffic reporter. But you should have seen …” He stops midsentence once he gets a good look at me. “Well look at you, beaming.”

  I know I am. I’m beaming. I can feel it, but I can’t help it. It’s like I want to scream from the rooftops that I had sex last night. And not just any sex—fantastic sex. Life-changing sex. I decide to keep my mouth shut and at least try to be a lady. Also who knows with this guy, what he’s recording or what he’ll turn into a page-click-fest later on Banter. You are in the process of redemption, Guiliana. At least that’s what I tell myself as I smirk instead. He’s going to have to pry it out of me. I can be mysterious.

  “Did you get laid last night? Look at that look on your face. My god, Guils.”

  “Oh my god, and he was so hot too,” I say as I put my two hands on his chest and sort of push him away as if to say, Can you believe it? So much for mystery. He
inches back to me and throws his arm around my shoulder as the hostess shows us to our table. “Good for you,” he says, seeming genuinely happy for me. “I need all the details.”

  Over a platter of crostini—two each of olive tapenade, cannellini, mushroom and lemon thyme, and ricotta with orange honey—I tell Bantering Ben about the romp that was last night, the romp that was my introduction back into the world. He looks like he’s taking mental notes—but not the kind that are fit to print—as I describe in detail how Greg first kissed me in the bar, putting one hand through my hair to the back of my neck and the other around my waist. I think he can sense the excitement radiating from every part of me as I tell him that I loved it and how JR hadn’t kissed me like that in years. He’s got a weird look on his face—is that jealousy? Maybe he’s just surprised to see such a change in me, from the girl he wrote about gallivanting around town, the girl he escorted home from the Soho Medical Center, and the girl so desperate to hold onto something she loved that she got locked up for dognapping. He’s not the only one; I’m surprised too. It’s then that I realize for the first time that something dramatic has changed in me. Some line has been crossed, and I’m actually smiling and feeling alive. Not the kind of smile brought on by a photographer saying “cheese,” either—a real smile. A part of my past is over. Not just my relationship and the engagement, but some of the unfinished bleak hollow sadness of it … is over. I feel free. Being with another man had finally given me something that was separate from JR, separate from my past and from us, and all that darkness. I needed to do something for me, to meet someone—clearly, to have sex with someone—that had nothing to do with JR. Last night was just that—it was all me. Greg doesn’t know JR, and JR doesn’t know him.