Transit Girl

by Jamie Shupak

  When I’m about to tell him about this morning and how I prayed Greg was naked like me, I know I’ve gone too far. Not only is Ben growing tired of this, but it is most definitely not why he asked me to meet him for lunch. I need to change the subject, pronto.

  “So. I guess I’m a writer now, huh? My redemption post was that good it didn’t need any editing?” I ask, teasingly.

  “Well, it could have used a little this, a little that,” he says with a sort of smirk on his face. Good, he’s playing back. This is a good sign. I didn’t totally turn him off with the sex talk. “But Jake and I thought it best for it to be authentic Guiliana Layne, so I didn’t mess with it.”

  “Wait, Jake’s involved in this?”

  “Of course he is. He’s my boss. He’s involved in everything on the site. That’s besides the fact that he has a total hard-on for you.”

  “Jake Spears? A hard-on … for me? Are we talking about the same person?”

  “Yes, Miss Naive. I’ve caught him watching your video from the Boom Boom Room when I go into his office. He’ll say things like, ‘A shame we had to take this down, other girls could learn a lot from her.’”

  I don’t even know what to say, so I pivot back to his previous point. “So what did you two think about authentic Guiliana Layne?” I finish the last crostini and immediately dive right into the prosciutto platter that the waiter just placed on the table. And I don’t even eat meat. As I reach for my fork to get a bite from the bowl of fried brussels sprouts, I pause, realizing the biggest change of all—bigger than the sex and blushy glow in my cheeks, is that I’m hungry again. No, I’m starving actually. And this isn’t eating; I’m gorging myself right now. My frail body has been devoid of sustenance and nutrition for weeks now, maybe longer, I don’t even know. This is how people must feel when they get out of jail and have their first meal after eating gruel behind bars. I guess I did just get out of jail, I think to myself as I savor every bite, every flavor, every crumb on the plate.

  “The authentic Guiliana is a hungry little girl, I’ll tell you that much. And hopefully she’s hungry to write more, because this post is getting more clicks than the Boom Boom Room video did.”

  “Wait, what?” I say, almost choking on one of the leaves of the brussels sprout I just housed. “You want me to write more?”

  “I’m gonna do a post about your post, because people obviously want to follow what’s happening in your life,” he says, looking me straight in the eye now. “And Guils, you’re not a half-bad writer.”

  Okay, wait. I had sex last night. I’ve just eaten enough to fill the entire starting lineup for the New York Knicks. Now I’m getting complimented on my writing? It’s like some planetary shift in the solar system, or maybe Mercury’s going out of retrograde? I never listen when Gemma blabbers about all that astrology stuff. Though she always did say JR and I weren’t a good fit because Virgos and Capricorns butt heads too much.

  “Well, thanks. That means a lot coming from you.” The check comes and Ben grabs for it, telling me it’s on him this time. When a guy says that, doesn’t that imply there’s going to be a next time? I really need a crash course in the language of men. As we walk out of Corsino together, he grabs for the door and motions for me to go through first. So he does have some manners, I think. As the afternoon sun peeks over the buildings on Hudson Street, blinding us, I tell him I’m walking back to my place, the opposite way that he’s going.

  “Alright, I’m out of here,” he says, throwing his hand up in the air to hail a cab. “I just need to know one thing.”

  “Sure, what?”

  “Was that true what you said in the redemption post, about JR’s collection of sunglasses? That he wore them all hours of the day?” I nod, embarrassed. “You know what Larry David says, right? That there are only two kinds of people who wear sunglasses inside—blind people and assholes.”

  I laugh. I’ve never laughed at JR’s expense before, but right now it feels … right. It feels okay. It feels good. “What about you, Ben?” I call out. “Where are your sunglasses?”

  “I don’t have any,” he says as a cab pulls over to pick him up. “I have nothing to hide.” He smiles broadly and gets in. “And hey, G, you be careful with Greg. I don’t want Doctor Sharoni to come after your husband for not looking out for that back of yours.” As the cab peels off, I’m shaking my head laughing. No sunglasses, huh.

  CHAPTER 17

  Somewhere in the distance, I hear the strumming of a harp. After a few minutes I realize I’m not at some church or symphony, just in my bed, and the alarm clock on my iPhone is going off. For the first time since I set the recurring alarm for 3:30 AM when I started at NYNN, I don’t feel like a lump of wet clay molded into my sheets. Not sure if it was the sex with Greg Advertising, the response to my redemption post, finding out that Jake Spears is mildly obsessed with me—or a combination of the three—but something’s changed. I feel light. I feel alive. I feel awake. Somewhere around my kneecaps—between a pile of pillows, just to the left of a hooded sweatshirt, and under my soft gray comforter—is my phone. I can hear it crescendo as I toss the socks out of the way that I must have ripped off in my sleep. I shut the alarm off and double check—no, triple check—that it’s actually 3:30, because I cannot believe how energized I feel.

  It’s my first day back at work after the two-week suspension. As always, the first thing I do in bed post-alarm is check my email and scroll through Twitter. Among some traffic advisories for this morning’s commute and a note from Mom wishing me luck is one from Gemma.

  from: gemmastyling@gmail.com

  to: guiliana.layne@gmail.com

  date: October 16

  subject: (no subject)

  I know you’re sleeping so I didn’t wanna wake you—but MY GOD. It’s Luke. He bugged out AGAIN about Dylan and like, yes, obviously he’s hot and yes, obviously we’re spending time together. But it’s work! I cannot DEAL with the jealousy and the questioning. Am I horrible person if I just want to end it with him?

  Yikes. Dylan Pierce is the star of the new hit action film Runaway, in which … well, none of us have actually figured out what happens except for him taking his shirt off maybe ten, eleven times. Not that any of us were complaining at the premiere. Because of that slicked-up, toned six-pack, he was just voted number one in “Top 10 Hottest Bodies” in US Weekly and number three in “Top 50 Sexiest Bachelors” in Cosmopolitan. It’s no wonder V-Dub gets upset when Gemma hangs out with him all night, even after an event where she’s styled him. Yes, she has to make sure his tie is straight and his shoes are shiny, but no, she does not have to make sure that his gin martinis are promptly refilled at the after-parties. And she called him Luke in her email, which means it’s serious. Whenever she calls V-Dub Luke, I know she’s upset. I don’t respond because I know she’ll Gchat me as soon as she wakes up, but I also need time to think about what I want to say to her. And I have to get ready for work!

  My phone plays the role of shower radio every morning, perched on the corner of my sink, so I stand there as the water heats up and the mirror begins to fog, flipping through my options. Lately it’s been one slow, depressing love song after another. But today the shuffle lands on the Kim Wilde anthem “You Keep Me Hangin’ On,” and I leave it there, singing along as I jump in. It’s been a while since I let loose in the shower, belting it out and even grooving my shoulders to the beat as I wash my body.

  I think my first day back deserves a special dress, so I glide open the door to my closet and hunt for my other favorite Diane von Furstenberg number—not that clingy red one. No, I mean the leopard-print wrap dress. Oh, Lady Leopard, how I love thee. She’s one of the few prints I own, so she stands out among the long line of solid-color frocks. She’s tight, bright, and confident—the captain of the cheerleading squad of dresses. And like that girl, she knows she’s hot. More important, anytime I put her on—I know it.

  I’m still humming that song as I make my way outside to Marko, who’s
waiting patiently in the car in front of the building. “Goooood morning,” I say as I shut the door behind me so hard it startles both of us.

  “Well hello there, Miss Layne,” he says in a tone half-surprised, half-relieved, as he peers into his rearview mirror at me. “Someone looks like they had a good suspension.”

  “You know what, Marko?” I adjust my dress and bag so I’m comfortable and pull my iPhone out to scroll through Twitter. I was too busy reading Gemma’s email that I didn’t get a chance to see what happened overnight. “I’m done crying. I’m done wondering why JR cheated. I’m done wondering how or when he fell out of love with me. I’m done being sick and wondering about everything.” Marko’s silent as he digests my tirade, so I quickly get on Twitter and thumb through my feed of sports recaps, self-promos, and bellyaching about the lame season premiere of Homeland and toggle over to my mentions.

  Whoa, there must be dozens here. It’s like a long laundry list of love. Some add a “Way to go, G” to their retweet of my Banter redemption post; others simply reply with a “Screw that guy!” or “There’s a lucky guy out there waiting for you” or even “I’m the lucky guy that’s out there waiting for you.” Jake Spears even retweeted it to his thirty thousand followers, adding, “This is traffic-stopping stuff” in front of it. Guess it could have been dirtier. I was unsure of how people would respond, but now I smile to myself, delightfully overwhelmed by the support. “Today is a good day, Marko.”

  “It sure is, Guils. I was waiting for that glow to come back.” He’s still looking at me in the mirror, but now he’s kind of sizing me up. “Hey wait, is that,” he pauses. “Is that the dress?” I’ve told Marko about the dress before. He knows I’m not to be fucked with when wearing my leopard-print DVF. I’m Super G. “Sure is,” I say as I pop open the door to the car and look up at the entrance to NYNN. “See ya tomorrow, Marko!”

  Super G is still in the house as I stand in front of the camera waiting for Eric to toss to me. I shift my weight from side to side and adjust the wrap tie around my waist, still singing the Kim Wilde lyrics in my head from earlier this morning.

  “Sixty seconds, Guiliana,” my producer says in my ear, startling me back into reality. “It’s a shame you missed your calling for American Idol.” Without missing a beat, I point my right finger at him through the camera and stretch out my arm, channeling John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. “Set me free why don’t you babe,” I sing at the top of my lungs.

  “Thirty seconds, Kelly Clarkson. Standby.” As I watch the red numbers on the clock flicker from one second to the next, I can’t help but love how I’m feeling. I also wonder how long it will last. I check my lip gloss.

  Was all I needed one long night of hot sex with Greg? I fix my hair.

  Was that the magic potion? I adjust the bow on the side of my wrap dress again.

  Just as Eric’s face flashes on the screen in front of me, I see the instant message box flicker on my computer screen ten feet away. I squint to see the message from my traffic producer: the A, C, and E trains have resumed service. Perfect timing.

  “Time right now is 8:38, time to head up to the traffic center for a check of the morning commute with Guiliana Layne. Once again, I’d like to welcome you back, Guils.”

  “It’s good to be back, Eric. Thanks!”

  “Before we get to the those train delays, I heard one of our NYNN staffers had a Banter post that went viral this weekend. Know anything about that, Guils?”

  “Oh, Eric,” I deadpan. Two can play at this game. I smile. I pause. “Have you been dancing with your shirt off at the Boom Boom Room again? I told you that wasn’t a good idea.” We both start laughing and in that way that news anchors do so well, I quickly pivot from sarcastic to serious. “But we’ll save the lecture for later. Let’s get to the traffic, beginning with a look at the train delays you mentioned.” I press my clicker, advancing my maps to the slide that says “on or close to schedule,” so that what I’m saying matches what the viewers are seeing. “Good news if you take the A, C, or E trains, because those earlier signal problems have been cleared and now all subways and buses are looking good.”

  After my report I head back to my computer and click on my Twitter tab to post the train update that I read on air. But before I can, I see Gemma’s finally up and on Gchat.

  Me: gem! you ok?

  Gemma: i don’t know, i have a pounding headache. i think from luke yelling at me. i mean i know it’s not from drinking, since i was working.

  Me: working? or working dylan?

  Gemma: no! i mean whatever, you know how luke gets. he freaked out cause i was gonna miss our usual sunday routine of ordering in dumplings from sammy’s and watching Homeland—but like, i had to work. and also, YAWN-FEST.

  Me: but wasn’t the event at like 5:30? you just have to be there for the red carpet right?

  Gemma: technically, yeah. but i wanna make sure he looks good in all the pictures, from the entire night. and it’s fun—i mean, come on—it’s dylan pierce. let me hang out and have fun, stop being my dad.

  Me: uh oh did you say that to him?

  Gemma: ya, hence the headache. gotta shower and get ready for work i’ll call you later.

  I toggle back to Twitter and see the blue bar lit up underneath my mentions column. It must be someone retweeting my earlier subway suspension tweet. I click it and am stunned. It takes a minute for my eyes to scan the entire list. There must be twenty mentions here, and they’re all commenting on my banter with Eric.

  @greg1982: oh snap, @GuilianaLayne lays the smackdown on @NewsmanEric.

  @reddragon: love that smile on @GuilianaLayne today, but not as much as that dress. How can I get a date with her?

  And then, there’s @LevelTaylor, which I assume means he works for Level magazine. I click to see his profile and boom, sure does. But it’s not just any employee—it’s Taylor Straits, the editor in chief!

  @LevelTaylor: who is this cute @GuilianaLayne girl razzing Eric? Same girl who wrote that killer @Banter post? Line one’s for you, girl.

  Line one’s for you, girl? I have no idea what that even means. Where is that crash course on the language of men? I look back to see if Gemma’s still there but she’s already signed off, and Taylor Straits from Level is tweeting at me. Every guy in this city shops and eats based on its recommendations, and every girl in this city makes sure their guy is abiding by its rules and advice. Wait a second, and he’s following me already? Do I follow him back right away? How does this even work? Will he think I’m flirting with him? Wait. Who cares? I’m allowed to flirt with him and whomever I want now. I click reply on the tweet and start typing.

  *PICKS UP LINE ONE* IT’S ME, SAME GIRL INDEED. GLAD YOU LIKE THE POST. THERE’S MORE WHERE THAT CAME FROM.

  Whoa, who am I right now? Did I really just tweet that? I take a deep breath and click follow so we can message privately, which is probably a much better idea. Just then, my phone buzzes.

  One new message from Twitter. Holy shit, he’s direct messaging me already. It’s been five seconds!

  Direct message from: @LevelTaylor: HEY GUILIANA, LOVED YOUR BANTER POST. WOULD LOVE TO TALK TO YOU ABOUT A POSSIBLE COLLAB WITH US. YOU AROUND FOR DRINKS ONE NIGHT THIS WEEK?

  I click reply, smiling ear to ear. Drinks? One night this week? A possible collaboration with Level magazine? I put my thumbs to the letters on the keypad of my iPhone—like putting my foot on the gas pedal—and set the wheels in motion.

  WOULD LOVE TO DISCUSS. HOW ABOUT TOMORROW, SAY 7PM AT CATCH? IF EMAIL’S EASIER, CHECK ME HERE: GUILIANA.LAYNE(@)GMAIL.COM

  CHAPTER 18

  Angel and Gemma are over at my place helping me get ready for drinks with Taylor. While I blow-dry my hair, they take turns thumbing through my closet and holding up outfits for one another that I should wear tonight. They shake their heads yes and no, proceed to dig for the shoes to match, give each other the thumbs-up or -down, then lay it on the edge of my bed—all this, without consulting me. I feel
like I’m back in elementary school when my mom would pick out my clothes for me. She’d masquerade options as me having the final say, but we all know she held veto power. So, like the tadpole of a single girl that I am, I allow them to take the reins. After all, I haven’t gotten dressed for a date in a long time. Wait. Is this even a date? It feels like a work meeting, but both Gemma and Angel made clear in a thread of emails that any guy who asks you to get drinks wants to get in your pants.

  Any guy who asks you to get drinks wants to get in your pants. JR was always “just grabbing a drink” with someone for work; guess he was with a lot more girls than just Courtney. Where the hell have I been these last ten years? I stop the blow-dryer as my phone starts ringing.

  “You guys, it’s Greg Advertising.”

  “Answer it!” Angel shouts. “If it doesn’t work out with Taylor, you have a backup for smush time.”

  “No way,” Gemma interjects. “Let it go to voicemail. You can always text him later.”

  These two, I swear. If they can’t even agree on how to handle something as simple as this guy calling, how am I ever going to navigate this crazy single world? I hit ignore and let it go to voicemail; we’ve got more pressing issues—like what I’m going to wear tonight.

  Gemma holds up this tight red scoopneck dress that looks like something Julia Roberts wore in Pretty Woman, pre–Rodeo Drive shopping spree. “You looked so hot in it at the Runaway premiere. C’mon,” she says, looking to Angel for support. “Red is so good on you.”

  “You did look awesome that night.” God, Angel is such a sucker. “But maybe save it for when we go to Splash soon.”

  I slip it on to temporarily appease the peanut gallery, knowing very well there’s no way I’m going out in it. “It just feels like too much, you guys. It’s like I’m saying, ‘Hey Taylor, wanna have sex with me?’”

  “And what would be wrong with that?” Now they’re in unison. “He said he loved the Banter post and wants to talk about a possible collaboration. I showed you his direct message. It’s work.”