by Jamie Shupak
“Hey, listen. I’m really sorry,” Darren says as he catches up to me. “I’ll bring you breakfast at work later. Just call and let me know what you want.”
“Okay,” I say. My kind of apology. “Thanks.”
“Hey, give me one more kiss.” I oblige—hey, I’m not that mad—then duck under his arm and into the backseat of the cab, barking stern directions to my office, with a pit stop at my apartment first. I know I don’t have time for a shower, but I can at least brush my teeth and swap last night’s stilettos for something a little more TV-appropriate and comfortable.
A couple hours later, Darren calls me between reports. But it’s not to see how I like my eggs cooked on my breakfast sandwich. “So is it true?” the voice on the other end demands.
“Darren?” I know it’s him, but I try to be coy. I know why he’s calling. I swallow the lump that’s been clogging my throat since I got into work this morning and saw the New York Toast. As I glance down at the paper and the picture of me kissing Ben, I realize he’s never going to believe my side of this story.
“Trans-It” girl Guiliana Layne may have new material for her Level magazine dating column after that wild Wrap mixer for top media bachelors and bachelorettes last night at MercBar. NYNN’s perky traffic reporter and gossip maven was seen getting cozy with Banter boy Ben Abrams on a stoop outside, engaging in some impromptu karaoke and even planting a big wet one on him before trying to slink back into the party. Banter wunderboy Abrams didn’t seem to be missing his main squeeze, Miss Blush Honoree Sloane Riley.
“It’s not what you think, Darren.”
“Really? Maybe it wouldn’t be, had they not gotten a freaking picture of you kissing. What kind of asshole do you think I am?” And he’s off to the races. I hold the phone away from my sensitive, hungover eardrums but I can still hear him, loud and clear. “You kiss him at the party, then go home with me? Do you even remember half the shit you said to me in bed?”
“Of course I do,” I say, trying to sound apologetic and innocent. I think I do. When Ben says my name it always sounds more sincere, so I give it a whirl. “Darren, listen. I like you. I liked you from the minute I met you last night. No, before then even—when I first saw you on the Wrap list. I meant everything I said last night. And that picture is misleading. I was giving him a kiss goodbye, on the cheek, and …”
“I don’t wanna hear your bullshit stories, Guiliana. I watch teams make trick plays for a living, so I’m just calling it like I see it. I really thought you were different, though. You told me all this shit about the crazy year you’ve had and blah blah blah. But you know what, I’m the jackass here, because I actually believed you.”
“Darren, please. I …”
“Don’t please me. Please just leave me alone. I hope you and Banter boy live happily ever after.” Click.
Whoa. Attached much? Good thing I didn’t let that go on any longer.
There is no mistaking when someone hangs up on you. It isn’t a dropped call or a weak signal—this is someone who cannot stand the sound of your voice anymore, does not want to talk to you anymore or to hear you speak your piece. There is also no mistaking how it makes you feel. Forget that I drank my weight in tequila and beer last night. Forget that I haven’t slept for over a day now. (No, the postcoital nap last night doesn’t count.) Darren’s words make me feel like an airbed that’s slowly being deflated. You know when you open the valve that’s been keeping the air inside? Then you walk all over it—stomp, even—to get it flat enough so you can roll it up and stuff it back into its bag? That’s how I feel. Ssssssss. And I’m hungry too—he was going to bring me breakfast. I think for a second about that frozen yogurt Ben dropped off postsurgery/post–Sloane Riley—and just like that, my foot goes from the brake to the gas.
“Two minutes, Guiliana.” Great. Eddie’s voice comes over my earpiece and interrupts my pity party. I look at the clock and realize that yes, once again, I have to go on air and deliver the traffic with a bright smile on my face. Inside, I am anything but. And I have less than one hundred and twenty seconds to get ready. I grab my hot pink lip gloss and dark brown eyeliner and head for the big full-length mirror. I put a drop of Visine in each eye to temper the redness and flip my head over to give it a little dash of hairspray and life. I grab my clicker and slink over to my green screen.
“And you’re live in three, two …”
“It’s 7:37 on this Friday morning, time for a live look outside and wow, it’s shaping up to be a beauty out there. We’ll have your full forecast coming up, but first let’s get upstairs to the traffic center for a look at your morning commute. Guiliana Layne is standing by, fresh off a big, fancy party last night. Isn’t that right, Guils?”
“That’s right, Eric.” Big, fancy mess is more like it, but I’m not engaging in the banter with him, not today. “Luckily good weather means good traffic, so let’s get to it. All your subways and buses are on or close to schedule, so let’s take a look at the roads at 7:38 on this Friday morning.”
Breathe. Forty-four seconds to go.
“We have regular rush hour delays on the westbound side of the LIE, but I’m keeping my eye on the eastbound side for all of you getting an early start to your weekend and heading to the Hamptons before the Saturday crowds. So far, all is quiet in that direction. Lucky you if you can skip out of town now.”
Lucky indeed. Maybe Gemma and I can get away to the beach this weekend.
Seventeen seconds left.
“The Verrazano is busy on the upper level heading into Brooklyn, and we just cleaned up a disabled vehicle on the West Side Highway near the Lincoln Tunnel. Street cleaning rules are in effect today citywide, so Eric, I’ll send it back downstairs to you.”
“And you’re clear, G,” Eddie says over my earpiece. I sit back down at my desk and reach for my phone to call Gemma. I need to hear what happened with Sloane last night, and I need to update her on this whole Darren, Ben drama. I see that I have text messages and Twitter mentions and even a missed call, which I check first. It’s Ben. I put the phone to my ear and listen to his message.
“That’s some shot of us in the Toast this morning. Now your new sports reporter boy toy knows how much you really loooove me.” Ugh. I toggle from voicemail to my text messages, where of course, Jake Spears also has to weigh in.
Direct message from: @JakeSpears: I SEE WHY YOU DIDN’T NEED ANY RESCUING LAST NIGHT.
Direct message from: @JakeSpears: BUT NOW I’M JEALOUS. BANTER WILL NOT BE SCOOPED IN THIS TRAFFIC LAYNE.
God, he can make a pun out of anything. But I made a pact with myself last night not to talk to him anymore. I’m hungover and tired, and the only person I want to talk to is Gemma. Luckily she’s calling right now.
“G, you are never going to believe this shit. Come over here right from work.”
“I will, I will. But I don’t get out for another four hours or so … give me a hint. Something, anything!”
“I’ll give you two words,” she says, so obviously proud of herself. She pauses. She waits. She takes a deep breath. And then, she says the two words I never thought I’d hear—not now, not about Sloane, or about anything to do with last night. “Jake. Spears.”
CHAPTER 31
I’m sweating. And it’s not because of the heat—though lord knows I run real hot at all hours of the day, and apparently all seasons of the year. It must be a mixture of the tequila I downed, the flashbacks I keep having of the sex with Darren, and my brain spinning in overdrive playing out the different scenarios from last night’s Blush awards that could lead down a road to Jake Spears. Gemma knows me well because as soon as I plow through the door to her apartment, there’s a large glass of ice water waiting for me on the coffee table as I plop down on the couch. As I guzzle it down, Gemma sits down across from me, wide-eyed, like she’s got gossip to share. And she doesn’t waste any time.
“Sloane fucking Smiley Riley is banging Jake Spears.”
I spit the water out—spraying it
all over the glass table in front of me—leaving little droplets of water that I imagine look just like the ones on my sweaty lower back.
“WHAT? Stop. It.” I am stunned. I am baffled. I am anxiously in need of every gory detail. “Spill it.”
“Okay, so she shows up, and Ben’s not there—obviously, we knew that though. He texted you in the afternoon. But I still didn’t believe it until I saw it. When I ask her why—I mean, it’s her big night, blah blah, I’m totally blowing her ego up—she starts in on this whole story about how Ben thought he needed to go to the Wrap thing because it’s great networking.”
“Networking! She is so full of shit.” I haven’t slept in god knows how long now, but I am sitting up at full attention anyway, with full energy. This story is just amazing.
“Right, and I knew that from all the stuff you told me that Ben said—that she makes up stories and exaggerates beyond belief. I pressed her on it and she got a little weird, so I decided to hold back. We still had a whole evening ahead of us, and I didn’t want it to be weird between us—plus, I can’t have her look like a sad little puppy dog in pictures. That shit reflects on me as a stylist.”
“Right. No, you’re totally right. So then what? How did the Jake thing come out?”
“So she goes up to accept her big honoree award—and whatever, we must discuss this later, but like, honoree? For style? I have so much to say on this topic. But so she goes up to give her little acceptance speech, and she hands me her program, pashmina, bag, and phone to carry.”
“Oh my god, and what—he texts her some sleazy thing like the stuff he says to me and you?” We are rapid-fire going back and forth with this story—you would think we are racing to the end or something. Neither of us can get our thoughts, our words, and our amazement at what’s happening out fast enough.
“Oh, you won’t even believe what he says, G! I was dying. I’m holding the phone, and it’s buzzing nonstop like some kind of broken wind-up toy. I finally look and he’s texting her, asking if he’s going to get a chance to unzip that red dress later.” We look at each other, shaking our heads, knowing very well what it’s like to be on the receiving end of his very explicit advances. It’s like all being members of the same club that you never asked to join, but also never really ask to leave, either.
“So then what? You look at the history, right? And how does he even know she’s in a red dress unless she told him …”
“Or sent a picture of herself in it,” Gemma says, happily interrupting me with the correct solution. “I scroll through their whole conversation—and it goes back weeks. They’ve met up it looked like two, maybe three times—but they send each other tons of pictures. Her with these pouty-face selfies everyday,” she says, puckering her lips and putting her hand on her hip, mimicking what she saw on the phone. I know the pose well, since Sloane posts similar ones on Instagram almost daily.
“So then did you call her on it? What happened after the speech?”
She scoots up to the edge of the couch, readying herself to drop the biggest bomb of all. “She gets offstage and takes the phone from me. She doesn’t even flinch when she sees Jake’s texts—I guess she trusts that I didn’t look. Who knows? Anyway, she starts texting someone and I’m like, ‘Aw, Ben must be so proud of you.’ I’m egging her on, sure, but like, whatever—night’s almost over, I gotta get to the bottom of this.” I’ve moved to the edge of the couch now too, mirroring Gemma’s position. “And she doesn’t come out and say it, but she says things like, she doesn’t know what Ben thinks of the style award, and she’s not sure where he’s going later tonight, and all these things that you would never in your life say about your boyfriend!”
“Right. Well, her boyfriend was being photographed kissing me! I mean, really.” And then it hits me. I get a flash of sitting with Ben outside on the store’s stoop last night. He looked sad. He looked confused.
“Oh my god, they broke up, didn’t they?”
I recount us sitting, singing, then kissing—and his painful expression through it all—the face of someone who has something they so desperately want to say but can’t. He wanted to tell me they broke up. But he was embarrassed. He was scared. He didn’t want to admit he made a huge mistake—one being tweeted and gossiped about, one that will live forever (or at least for a while) on Google Images and Wikipedia and all the other online forums for our missteps. “Gem, this is crazy. Do you think I should call him?”
“Doesn’t look like you have to worry about that,” she says, handing me my phone that I threw down on the table when I walked in. It’s vibrating, and I can already see it’s him. But he’s calling, not texting. This feels so retro, so official, so important. “Answer it!”
“Ben, hey!” I say, feigning my natural, all-is-cool-here tone. Gemma’s waving her hands in the air like a referee signaling that a field goal in football is no good. Now she’s mouthing to me, ensuring that I don’t say a peep about what she just told me. I nod and wave her down.
“Let him tell you,” she says out loud, obviously not trusting our nonverbal communication. I nod again. I got this.
“So, since the Toast already thinks we’re getting cozy, want to come play some Ping-Pong with me at the office tomorrow?”
“Ping-Pong?” I say, smiling. At least he’s not asking me out, like on a real date or something. That would be too much, too soon. “But last time I beat you in front of your whole team,” I say, keeping it light. “You don’t wanna get screwed in front of all of them again, do you?”
“You already screwed what’s-his-name, Mister NFL Network, in front of my face, so what’s the difference?” Wow, he’s in a good mood—making jokes.
“Actually it’s over already with Darren. That’s his name, by the way. Darren. He thinks you and I are a couple after seeing today’s Toast and wants nothing to do with me.”
“Wow, um …” he pauses. “Sorry?”
“Oh save your sorrys for tomorrow. You’ll need ’em when you apologize for wasting my time coming over there and making you look like a fool.”
“Oh yeah? Care to put a wager on that?”
“Sure, all I want is a tweet. I’ll figure out the exact wording by the time I win, but something along the lines of me being the hottest, best Ping-Pong player ever.” I smile, so proud of this thought. That would kill Sloane Smiley Riley. “And you? What do you want?”
There’s silence. I wait. I breathe. I wonder what he’s going to say.
“A date. When I win, you have to go on a date with me.”
CHAPTER 32
When Gemma and I walk into the Banter office elevator, it’s just before 8 PM. We decided that while I was playing Ping-Pong with Ben, she would go into Jake’s office and convince him to tell Ben about his affair with Sloane. Now that we knew, Ben needed to know too—it’s only fair that he knows the whole truth about his boss and his ex-girlfriend—and we didn’t want to be the ones to tell him. Nor should we be. It would look like we played a part in Jake and Sloane’s philandering or worse, were jealous and wanted Ben and Sloane broken up. Neither is a good look, and neither is what we deserve. We just want Ben to know the truth, and we want Jake to be the one to tell him. We’ve all been on the wrong end of a dishonest partner, their hurtful lies, and the toll it takes.
When the giant orange door slides open, all I see is Ben and the Ping-Pong table. He looks adorable in his jeans and grey V-neck T-shirt—finally mastering the art of the casual but cool dress. And those double-knotted brown shoes—I can always count on him for those. Everyone’s gone for the evening, confirmed by numerous tweets and Foursquare check-ins I scrolled through in the cab on the way over. They’ve been at Tom and Jerry’s, the bar around the corner from their office, since just after 6:30. Being here when no one else is feels like walking through an empty Vegas casino first thing in the morning. You can tell there was a flurry of activity at Banter all day long—the big storyboard and computer screens are all still lit up and flashing—but the desks are empty, and
the only noise is the occasional beep emanating from someone’s laptop.
I send Gemma right to Jake’s office and explain to Ben that she’s giving him some styling advice he asked her for. I touch my hand to my hair—cinched in a high, tight ponytail above my head, perfect for some serious Ping-Pong action. I’m in a plain white off-the-shoulder T-shirt—casual with just the right hint of sexiness. It accentuates the nape of my neck, while still being baggy enough to hide my soft abs, which are desperate to get back into the workout routine postsurgery. Okay, maybe it’s been a little longer than that. But the more notable white is that of my smile that’s so strenuously been guarding my inner turmoil of keeping all this Sloane stuff inside, that it shines like a porcelain NO TRESPASSING sign, the kind I might report on during one of my traffic reports. The strain is apparent, the effort clearly exhausting. Only now that I see Ben standing there smiling am I ready to let the sign swing down from its hinge. I used to be so afraid of letting people know I was scared, afraid to share my heartbreak, afraid to let anyone know my inner thoughts, afraid that something horrible would happen. But not anymore. It’s time I give him a real chance.
“You look beautiful,” he says, keeping his eyes fixed on mine. My face, unadorned, not a single eyelash curled, is at its most vulnerable.
“Just wait until you tell all hundred-fifty-thousand of your Twitter followers that after I beat you.”
“I have no problem telling them the truth,” he says in a matter-of-fact tone, and I can tell he means it. “But that’s not going to happen today. I’m going to make you look worse than the George Washington Bridge during rush hour.” We look at each other, smiling—both remembering that’s the last thing he said to me before our first game of Ping-Pong together, right here, almost a year ago to the day.
“Shall we?” I motion to the table. He hands me a paddle, and I head for the other side.