Transit Girl

by Jamie Shupak

  I kept my hat slung low on my head the whole game, in case any of my viewers caught sight of me. But after a few Bud Light drafts and that spiral touchdown Tom Brady threw to Rob Gronkowski in the third quarter, I was spinning and throwing it in the air. I remember Darren Clark, that hot sideline reporter, tossing his knit beanie in the air too. Sometime after that touchdown, Ocean finally got up the nerve to kiss me. Actually, he told me he wanted to kiss me but didn’t want me to think he brought me there to take advantage of me. “You have me here, so you might as well,” I told him, which was apparently all he needed to hear. Soft kissing led to soft petting, which led to more intense kissing which led to more intense petting, which led to sex in the box’s bathroom. I still remember him sitting me up on the sink and looking me straight in the eye and whispering, “You don’t know how long I’ve been thinking about this moment.” I didn’t know what to say back, and I felt a bit shy, so I gave him an “mmm hmmm” and sort of giggled, signaling him to keep going. He then kissed me slowly from my mouth, down my neck and all the way to my belly. He slid my shirt off, then slid me off the sink and threw me against the wall, facing it. “I’ve wanted to do this for so long,” he told me. “I’ve dreamed about being inside of you.” While his mouth and his hands sent a jolt of warm blood rushing everywhere each time they touched my skin, it was his words that, like that radio hit refrain, made me want to keep singing it over and again. I was submissive, letting him do whatever he wanted to me. He continued kissing me around my sides to my lower back, while reaching around to unbutton my jeans. He pulled them down as I stepped out of them. We stood there for a good fifteen minutes, my body facing forward with his pressed up right behind me. My head was in his hands, kissing his perfect face—and for that brief moment we were in heaven together—that is, until the cleaning crew’s series of rapid-fire knocks on the suite’s door brought us back down to earth.

  After he kisses Gemma hello, her eyes meet mine, she smiles, and I know she’s thinking about that sex in the stadium story. Judging by V-Dub and Ocean’s faces, they both are as well. We order another round of shots and this time cheer to V-Dub’s birthday. The drinks continue to flow as each of our friends arrives at the bar. They’re beginning to go down easier and not burn as much. Nice and smooth.

  “We should go over there, by the TV,” Ocean points across the room, where Ryan Seacrest is making small talk on the screen with Jenny McCarthy, biding time until midnight. “It’s almost time,” he says, beaming at me. He has that look in his eye that, while part of it melts my insides like hot chocolate syrup dripping down the side of an ice cream cone, part of it also scares me. What if he really likes me? What if he wants to be with me? I don’t think I’m ready for that. I’m just starting to get back into this game—and I like it. I like the chase. I like the back and forth. I like the mystery of the unkno … wait, what’s that? My phone’s vibrating from inside my clutch. I reach for it and there he is, the one I need to be distracted from.

  One next text message from J-Baker.

  HAPPY ALMOST NEW YEAR. YOU BETTER NOT MAKE OUT WITH OTHER MEN AT MIDNIGHT.

  I stare at it for a moment and turn my back to Ocean, tucking my phone right under my gaze, hiding the bright screen as best I can.

  WHERE R U? RATHER MAKE OUT W U :)

  One next text message from J-Baker.

  ANGELO MAXIES STILL. ARE YOU MEETING ME?

  I look up at Ocean, who’s staring blissfully at the screen as Ryan interviews couples talking about their strategy for a perfect New Year’s kiss. Poor guy—he loves love, and I love the excitement of some guy across town. I look back to my phone and reply.

  YES WHERE U AT

  One next text message from J-Baker.

  I’M HERE

  I’m staring at the screen—confused—but also trying to be nonchalant though my fingers are feeling very loose.

  WAIT, WHERE—20TH AND PARK?

  Ocean grabs my hip, spinning me around. “Hey gorgeous, let’s put that phone away.” He kisses me softly on the lips and hands me another drink. V-Dub is passing flutes of champagne around to the whole crowd. I look up at the TV, and there’s only two minutes until midnight. I feel my phone buzzing in my hand, but I can’t turn it over in case J-Baker’s text says something I don’t want Ocean to see. So I tell him I want to take a picture of us—which is true—though it’s also the perfect excuse to check my phone.

  One next text message from J-Baker.

  YEA

  He bends down towards me, smushing his face against mine and I reach my hand out as far as I can. We smile, and he pokes his finger at the button. Snap, snap, snap. Then he leans in and kisses me on the cheek. Snap, snap, snap. I click the button to look at the selfies, and I have to squint at the screen. It’s blurry. Is it the graininess—or is that just my eyes? Everything’s starting to get fuzzy.

  “We’re pretty cute,” Ocean says. “You ready for this?” he says, picking my chin up from the phone to look at the TV in front of us. He squeezes my hand tight. “One more minute.”

  I free my hand for a second long enough to type back to J-Baker.

  U SHOULD B HERE.

  I pause, rethinking what I just wrote. He can’t come here; Ocean’s here.

  I’LL COME TO U, TELL ME WHERE

  “Here we go, Guiliana,” Ocean’s voice and mine join in unison with the crowd in the bar. “In five, four, three, two … one! Happy new year!” He leans in to kiss me, and my whole body heats up. Like lava rushing out of an erupting volcano, I feel the warmth of his whole body, his whole mouth on mine, kissing me soft but sweet—and the tequila flows from the point of contact on my lips straight through my throat, my belly, my everything, straight down to my toes.

  “It’sgonnabeagreatyeeeeeear,” I say as I look up from his kiss. It’s getting harder to separate my words. And my phone is still buzzing, so I head to the bathroom for a quick touch-up and catch-up.

  One next text message from J-Baker.

  20TH AND PARK

  Now the tequila’s talking for me.

  WAIT, WHERE

  One next text message from J-Baker.

  ARE YOU SERIOUS? I JUST TOLD YOU TWICE.

  Without even scrolling back to see where I’m going, I respond.

  B 2 U IN 5

  My eyes are still closed when parade music starts to permeate my eardrums. It sounds like a marching band at a football game, so I try to open my eyes to see what’s going on. I want to look around, but the sun is burning through the miniblinds—that much I can tell through the slits in my dried-up, caked-on mascara. Neither my eyes, my ears, nor my brain are on speaking terms with the daylight yet. I attempt to wet my index finger with my parched tongue—a lot of tequila, that I remember—so I can clear out the corners of my eyes. I squint them open a touch more and take in the room—the vast loft that I’m lying naked in—slowly. Shit. The last thing I remember from last night is making out with Ocean as we watched the ball drop in Times Square on TV. So how did I wind up at J-Baker’s? And where is he?

  I grab for my phone on the nightstand, hoping that my text messages and recent calls will give me a clue. Nine missed calls and eighteen new texts. I’m too overwhelmed to play catch-up with everyone right now, so I scroll directly to the J-Baker feed to figure out how I got here.

  Shit.

  This is not good. The string of texts on my screen is both incoherent and repetitive. His side of the conversation sounds matter-of-fact, and annoyed. Like he’s dealing with a drunk child, not a sophisticated woman who just turned thirty. I cross my legs and bounce in the bed as I figure out the rest of my evening. I have to pee so badly, but I don’t want to get up and face him until I’m armed with all the facts. I don’t know how I got here, or why I left my birthday party to meet him at the Hurricane Club. And what happened to Ocean, who I invited to the party specifically to prevent this sort of situation, where I wind up in Mister Personality’s bed? Hopefully Gemma knows. I know she was dealing with her own V-Dub/Jake Spears
drama, but I start texting her anyway.

  YOU ALIVE, GEM? I’M AT J-BAKER’S! WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?

  Thank god she texts back right away. I don’t think I could wait any longer.

  One next text message from Gemma.

  I KNOW YOU ARE! ME, BARELY ALIVE. G, I WAS CONSOLING OCEAN AFTER YOU LEFT.

  My hangover just took a turn for the worse. Like lighting a firework, the pain in my head sails down to the pit of my stomach—zoom—and explodes on arrival—BOOM! Now I’ve got to get up and pee.

  SHIT. I GOTTA GET OUTTA HERE. I’LL BE THERE SOON.

  I scan the floor for my sequin minidress—there it is, on the radiator—just what I feel like putting on right now. I look at my five-inch Jimmy Choos and decide they need to wait until I at least go to the bathroom. As quietly as I can, I peek around the corner to the living room, and there he is, in all his Polo Ralph Lauren catalog glory—teddy bear logo drawstring pajama pants atop the old brown leather couch—playing Madden on Xbox. I knew I heard a football marching band! He pauses the game and puts the controller down as he turns to me. A rumpled tiara is sitting next to him on the couch. I give him a tiny wave.

  “Happy New Year. Impressed you can still sleep late, given you’re now thirty.”

  “Pretty sure the tequila helped with that one,” I say, trying to keep things light. After that text conversation—inebriated rant, whatever you want to call it—I can’t even bear to look him in the eye.

  “You had plenty of that last night. Want some breakfast?”

  “Nah, I gotta get home and work on my next Level column, but thanks.” I’m starving, but it’s true, I haven’t thought about what I’m going to write for my next column. Thankfully I still have a few days. But this guy doesn’t need to know that.

  No matter, though, because he doesn’t try to change my mind and sway me to stay. He just shrugs and picks up the controller, turns back to the TV, and pushes play on the game as I pad off to the bathroom. So personable! I’m not surprised—it’s typical of all our interactions thus far. He’s hot, no question. But the looks and the apartment overlooking Central Park don’t make up for the fact that he is boring. And so is the sex. I wish I forgot that part. What a waste of a pretty, well-groomed face, I think, as I take in one last glimpse of the impressive Kiehl’s lineup in his shower. I trace my finger down the line of astringents and conditioners and let it linger on a bottle of Rice and Wheat Volumizing Shampoo for a second before I bend down and shove my swollen feet into my stilettos, grab my bag, and head for the door.

  “Wow,” he says, half turning his head towards me. “Heading out so fast? What about your tiara? Should I save it for next year?”

  “Yeah, same time, same place,” I say. I hurl a “bye” into the room and limp as quickly as I can to the elevator.

  Twenty minutes later I bust into Gemma’s apartment and, kicking off my heels, leap into bed with her. Like the best friend she’s been once again trying to be, she gets up and grabs me a makeup remover wipe, a tall glass of water, and three Advil, then returns to the warm spot next to me. Our faces are on separate pillows but inches apart, and in her softest, most easy-on-my-hangover voice, she starts recounting the night.

  “Do you remember J-Baker texting you right before midnight?” I reach for my phone and, scrolling back for what seems like eternity, I find it. I do remember this. I think?

  “Wait, where’s V-Dub?” I ask, realizing he should be here—the morning after his birthday, the morning after New Year’s.

  “No, you first,” she says, implying there’s a story. Otherwise she would have just said He’s getting us food, or whatever. “And I need to see these texts anyway.” I scroll to the top of the queue and as she slides her face closer to mine, we toggle through the conversation together. “I told you to ignore him,” she says, all of a sudden the authority on men. “You should have just paid attention to Ocean. He’s obsessed with you. But you didn’t want to listen.”

  I can’t remember not listening, or what she even said for that matter, but seeing as I woke up in J-Baker’s apartment this morning, I’m assuming she’s right. I shake my head. Poor Ocean. He must think I’m such an asshole.

  “I don’t know if Ocean realized—my memory’s sort of hazy too—but the whole time you were definitely texting J-Baker figuring out how to meet up.” I shudder, looking through the texts one more time. I should know the perils of texting under the influence—anything under the influence—by now.

  Gem continues. She is not going to let me forget any part of my bad behavior. “Then you told Ocean you were leaving and it turned into this whole romantic comedy scene outside the bar.” She shakes her head. “Everyone was watching. He begged you not to go, to stay with him, and you looked brokenhearted telling him no, but then you jumped in the first cab you found.”

  It’s like I told everyone who dogged out JR after we broke up—you just can’t help whom you’re drawn to.

  “Taxis are hard to come by on New Year’s Eve,” I say, and Gemma cracks up.

  Just then her door buzzes, making us both jump a little. “Oh good,” she says. “I ordered us egg and cheese sandwiches from the diner.”

  “Wait, you never told me, where’s V-Dub? I figured that was him.”

  “I don’t know,” she says, hanging her head.

  “Wait, what do you mean you don’t know?” I try to bend down and catch her eyes. “It was his birthday—and New Year’s! What the hell happened?”

  We move to her couch, and, over our greasy hangover food, she recounts the real drama from last night—her drama, not mine.

  “We were all really drunk, G. After you left V-Dub suggested we go home, and I wasn’t ready to go home yet. I wanted to keep drinking, keep hanging out. He accused me of being immature, not knowing that there’s a good thing in front of me, never being satisfied with everything he does for me …” she trails off, noticing the look on my face. I should be giving her sympathetic eyes—I’m her best friend, after all, not his—but she can tell I’m nodding in agreement with his accusations.

  “So then what? He left?”

  “He just said, ‘Call me when you realize that I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you—hopefully it won’t be too late.’”

  “And you …” I wait for her to fill in the blank, hopeful that she stopped him in his tracks, told him she knew, and the story would end there with a happy ending. It should cut to credits, and the music should be triumphant but soft. The last image should be of them kissing and making up. That’s when you brush the popcorn off your lap and leave the theater smiling, because everything worked out the way you knew it would.

  “Texted Jake Spears,” she mumbles.

  It’s like the director jumped up from his chair and screamed, “CUT!” so loud that the cast and crew thought he wanted to call off the whole film.

  Now I’m the director and I don’t know how I want this scene to end. We sit on the couch, not saying a word for a minute. The tension is palpable. I’m getting rushes of flashbacks from that infamous three o’clock in the morning phone call with Courtney when I already know the answers, and I know they’ll break my heart, so I don’t want to ask the questions. My phone starts vibrating atop the coffee table, breaking the silence.

  One new text message from Bantering Ben.

  HEY OLD LADY, HOW’S 30 FEEL? I WANNA HEAR ABOUT THE PARTY. LATE BRUNCH?

  Just Ben. I’ll reply later. I sit it back down on the table and a minute later, it vibrates again.

  One new text message from Bantering Ben.

  I WAS WITH PEOPLE YOU KNOW LAST NIGHT, LET’S TALK. AND HAPPY NEW YEAR!

  I put the phone back down and look at Gemma like a mom waiting for her guilty kid to ’fess up. “We just kissed,” she whispers. As if saying it in a lower voice will soften the blow.

  “What about V-Dub?” I go from zero to sixty in about two-tenths of a second—definitely not whispering. I want her to hear me loud and clear. I am filled with rage, and I
definitely don’t want to hear any details of a Jake Spears makeout. “And did you know he was texting me the other night after I left Splash about a fucking threesome?”

  “I know; I mean I don’t know about that text, but I know I have to end it.”

  “Yeah ya do,” I say, balling up the tin foil from my finished egg sandwich and tossing it in the plastic bag it came in. “Do it. Just fucking end it. Don’t be JR.”

  “G.” She pleads with me as I get up to leave—to forgive, to understand, to stay.

  “No, don’t ‘G’ me. End it, then we’ll talk.” I grab my heels from her bedroom and head for the door. “I have to figure out what to say to Ocean, and I have a column to write.” I pause and stare at her, shaking my head.

  “Do you hate me?” She’s curled up in a ball now, about to cry.

  I hear the lump in her throat, choking her. I see tears in her eyes. “No, I don’t hate you. I love you. That’s why this makes me so sad.”

  CHAPTER 22

  I would love to write this column about Gemma and Jake Spears; I could wax poetic on this subject for a series of columns or even a whole book. But I want to start the new year right, on a positive note. So I won’t write about leaving Ocean hanging either, cause that would be too heavy. Plus I knew I might regret something I’d say, so instead I decided to flesh out what I already regretted: texting under the influence. I thought it’d be funny to copy/paste the text exchange with J-Baker and poke fun at myself for that insane, inebriated back and forth. Turns out I made the right choice. It got so many pageviews and mentions on Twitter that I printed the column out and hung it on my fridge. Since I hadn’t heard from J-Baker since I left his place on New Year’s Day, I figured it would not only serve as a good reminder never to engage in that drunken behavior, but also never to date a guy like that again.