by Ava Moore
Jesus Trish, what harm is a text going to do? It is the most convenient and innocent way of contacting someone. Even if he is asleep or preoccupied it won’t wake him and he will get it later on in the day. If he doesn’t want to talk, then I won’t have to endure the rejection in his voice firsthand and will just have to deal with never receiving a reply. I tell myself I can deal with that a lot easier. I think it will hurt less.
I prompt my phone to open up a new text message window and start to type in his number in the recipient field. I have the shakes. Bad. Again, I wonder if it’s the booze or if I am just this nervous. I think I’m just this nervous. Typing his number in is the easy part though. After that’s over, what the hell am I going to say?
Fuck it. I can’t do it. He’s out of your league anyways.
Trish, what the hell are you thinking? You’re just going to end up getting hurt again.
No, you’re not going to pussy out and you are going to send this text message. Take a chance for once, Trish. Stop living such a safe life.
In my daydreaming fantasy world mixed in with my inner conflict wreaking havoc, I nearly miss my stop on the subway, but thankfully, someone trips into me and gives me a good smack on the back of their head with the big box of books they are hauling around. It feels great. Not. It gets me out of my head and back into reality, though. Maybe I always need a good smack on the head. I’m sure my mother would agree with that sentiment. It’s now or never, in terms of this mystery man and I choose now. I don’t know if I am going to regret it but I know that nothing bad is going to happen to me as a result of an innocent text. At least that’s what I told myself and it is enough to convince me to start typing.
As I’m walking out of the subway train, I text the number, with trembling fingers that make texting damn near useless, a simple, “I would love to lock eyes again but I’d also like to know your name first.” I think it’s flirtatious without going overboard and also, it is innocent enough that it still makes me feel somewhat guarded and protected. I don’t want to come off too vulnerable off the bat, since I had already done a great job of that last night. Now the ball is in his court. Great. This is what I hate about the dating game the most. I like being in control and I like knowing what is going to happen next. Maybe that’s my biggest fault of all but it is hard for me to let go. After what happened with Dan, I put up a solid fortress around my heart and so far, no one was able to even get past the moat.
The subway station is almost underneath the building we work in, so only a few strides and some quick elevator rides and I’m up to the twenty-seventh floor in no time at all. The receptionist at the front desk still doesn’t recognize me, even four years later. Although, I’m sure Jane goes through them faster than she does writers. They all look the same to me so I assume she has been here for a while, causing me more insult to injury. “Trish? Tricia Parker? Sex Columnist?”
The receptionist smacks her gum and files through the directories on the front desk computer, with eerily creepily long nails that I’m sure she could win a Guinness World Record with. They make an awful sound on the keyboard, something far worse than any damage she could do with a chalkboard. She locates my name and sends me into Jane’s office, with nothing more than a point down the hall with her decrepit and bizarrely long index finger. “That way.”
No shit, Sherlock. I’ve been here for years. Granted, it’s rare for me to walk into the office since I am banished to my apartment to work but still, you should know who does what if you are the first person they encounter when they come through the doors. Call me old fashioned but just because chivalry is dead, doesn’t mean common sense and basic decency had to die as well.
The walk to Jane’s office always makes me nervous. People don’t intimate me easily, mainly because I rely on my sense of humor to create this metaphoric shield from malicious people that I try to deflect with self-deprecating humor, but it never works with Jane. She sees right through me. It’s terrifying. Trust me.
Sun fills the floor to ceiling windows that overlook all of Manhattan in the offices. Up here, we have views of all of New York City and it’s breathtaking. No matter where you look, you get a view of the concrete jungle, Central Park and beyond. It’s beautiful. The entire office is constructed with pine floors and white furniture, with the odd pop of color from an accent pillow or something similar. It’s almost clinical in its stark white appearance, but people tell me it’s modern.
I walk straight down the hallway to the boardroom, contemplating putting my sunglasses back on to alleviate the stress of the reflection of the sun bouncing all over the office. It’s bad for my headache but I don’t want to look like that girl; the one who strolls in hungover still wearing her sunglasses and reeking of booze from the night before. I’m already close, just sans the sunglasses. The glass French doors remain open to the boardroom, beckoning that I’m on time and maybe even early. Phew!
I take a seat at my designated chair around the table, which I’m always flabbergasted that I still have, and am greeted with water and freshly pressed espresso. Finally, real coffee. I’m not a coffee connoisseur or anything but I know this Americano is going to be better than the 7-11 coffee that I have been nursing this morning, which I’m sure had been out for hours prior to my purchase. An array of breakfast food is on the table and I can’t help but snag a muffin. It might be the only fresh thing I eat all day. The other girls who work at the magazine all file in and sit down at their designated seats as well. I’m caught between the hair and makeup writers, two people I can’t stomach for very long, mainly because I can feel them dissecting every part of my appearance.
I can’t help but look down at my phone to see if he has replied. My hands wobble as I retrieve it from my bag and they are so sweaty, I nearly drop the phone through my fingers.
Sure enough, there is a red (1) by my text message feature, signaling a reply.
Holy shit! No way! There is no way he could respond that quickly!
I open it, with some hesitation, naturally.
“Hey girl, hope you got your column done in time. Please call me after your meeting.” It’s Cris.
Of course. There’s no way it could have been him. How could I have been so stu…
Another text comes in and since the feature is already open, it comes up on my screen right away.
“The name is Ashton. Now, Trish, when can I see you again?”
It’s him. Holy mother fucking shit of hell it is him.
I’m literally frozen, no, paralyzed right now sitting in my chair. Yes, I want to get together tonight, more than anything, but I’m scared shitless of him. Never before has a man made me feel twelve emotions at once. Well, maybe my ex but those were twelve terrible emotions that no human being should endure at once. I nervously begin a new text message but of course, I’m rudely interrupted by the devil herself.
Right at 9:00 am and not a second more, Jane walks in and closes the door behind her, silencing the room as soon as it latches. Her grey hair is buzzed close to her head and she adorns black cat-eye glasses that shield her piercing green eyes. She always looks high fashion to the point where you wonder what she wears to bed, not sexually of course. Even though it’s early Sunday morning, she’s in a green and yellow Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dress and matching Louboutins. Man, I hope I look that good when I’m sixty, just way less of a bitch. “Good morning. Thank you all for coming in today. Let’s get started. Shall we? Drew, what do you have for me?” She wastes no time getting to work and commands the whole room of writers and workers with one look.
Perfect, an opportunity for me to try to compose a text message and myself. I try to focus on Drew during her spiel but my main focus is on my phone, which is uncouthly between my legs. Drew stands up and fiddles with her black thick-framed glasses before speaking. She plays nervously with her long brown hair and fidgets with her animal print blouse. She’s nervous. I would be too. Jane makes me want to shit my pants out of terror but I am too afraid to shit my pant
s in fear that shitting my pants will only make a mess that will piss her off even further. May the force be with you, Drew. “In fashion, we are focusing on the MTV Movie Awards and the fashion choices made specifically by Miley Cyrus.”
“She’s hot right now. Good. I like that. What else?”
More time to figure out what to write. “When and where?” I type back into the message, feeling like my fingertips have their own heartbeat. I couldn’t remember the last time I was this nervous to text someone. I can feel the heat radiating from my cheeks. I’m blushing. A lot. I grab for my espresso, thinking that taking a sip will help to steady me but of course, it does the complete opposite and my heart is beating so hard in my chest, I’m sure it’s going to leap out of my mouth at any moment and land right on the table in front of Jane.
Drew clears her throat. “We are also focusing on what stars’ have been wearing during their daytime outings and how our readers can get the looks for less, just in time for fall.”
He writes back, mere seconds later. I close my eyes tight before forcing them open, like I’m terrified of the text I’m about to read. “Do you like Japanese?”
Are you kidding? I’ll take anything rather than Peeking Garden. “I love it.” I write back and stuff my phone in my lap.
“I’m sorry, what is your name?”
I look up and sure enough, Jane is staring me down. Shit. Busted. “Um, sorry. My name is Trish. Trish Parker?”
“Who?”
Dear God, kill me now of embarrassment. Jane is trying to scold me but can’t even remember my name to do so. I’m completely mortified, worse than when I got busted for streaking in college and I was the only one doing so since everyone else stayed back, allowing me to make a bigger, drunker ass of myself. “Trish. I write The Trish Dish?”
She pauses for a moment, as if she is recollecting the pages in her magazine and trying to remember where I come in. The ticking seconds are painful and the humiliation is unbearable. “Oh, right. Well, I’m sorry but is your crotch more fascinating to you than this meeting?”
Is it bad if I say yes?
Jane’s biggest rule during these meetings is no cell phones, whatsoever, but I can’t help myself. He intoxicates me and the fact that he might feel the same way about me, drives me wild. “I’m, um, I’m sorry Ms. Hobbs.”
The other women in the meeting laugh at me, which only solidifies my belief that I’m the joke of the room. If I could only prove to them that I’m a better writer and that I have more talent than them. My column contains the only grammatically correct sentence structure in this whole damn magazine. I’m better than them; I just need the opportunity to prove it. I stuff some of the blueberry bran muffin in my face and sit quietly, hoping that Jane will just push the meeting forward and forget all about me. Food always brought me comfort when I needed it the most. It’s a bad habit but at least I’m not smoking.
Jane crinkles her nose at me and turns her attention to Drew. “It’s not bad, but it’s not great. It’s typical. I want more. This is our big issue. Don’t disappoint me now.” I feel like that last sentence is directed towards me. It’s like a knife to my gut, or maybe it’s still the booze.
Drew swallows hard and freezes. “I… uh…”
“Sit down and think about it. I’m coming back to you. Moving on. Holly, what do you have for photography? I want the juice.”
My phone buzzes between my legs but I don’t bother to look now. Do I risk my job for this guy? Definitely not yet. Drew sits down faster than the speed of light. If she could hide under the table, I’m sure she would. I always get nervous for these girls. I can’t imagine being in their shoes and I only just got a taste of the wrath of Jane just now. I’m just here to write about sex for a column that no one reads. For them, one fuck up here and they aren’t working in this industry again; Jane would make sure of it.
“I’ve got the biggest piece of the year right here,” Holly teases with a folder on the table. She slides it forward and everyone leans in.
“I don’t have time for games, Holly. Now or never.”
Holly swallows hard. Even though she’s certain of herself, Jane makes her think twice. I’m sure if she asked you your age, you would have to think twice about it too. “You all know about the new up and comer or in my opinion, late bloomer, Ashton Croft?”
The ladies all around the table nod and I sit, instantly feeling like this muffin was a bad idea. My stomach starts turning into knots and I can feel my breath getting caught in my throat. Ashton is not a common name so I pray to God that this is not the same one. This can’t be happening to me.
“Well, we caught him doing some naughty things last night to a certain shall we say, female friend.”
The ladies all “ooh and “aah” around the table, while I can feel my jaw tensing up and my entire body is now as stiff as a board.
“Don’t waste another second, Holly. Spill it,” Jane commands, silencing the entire room. Holly opens the folder and passes the pictures around the table.
“It looks like this new celebrity was getting his fingers wet at Blush.”
Fingers? Wet? Blush? Ashton Croft? Celebrity? I start piecing together the puzzle and my heart and my stomach get caught in my throat or maybe it is just muffin. Regardless, I can feel my throat tighten and I realize, that I am in fact, choking. This is what I get for being the only one around the table to be eating. I try to cough it out but I’m turning blue in the face, my esophagus restricting with each breath I try to take. The girls around me at the table start patting me on the back but it’s no use. They are all wimps anyways and it honestly feels like they are tapping me rather than trying to save my life. Maybe they are all trying to kill me off. If Charles Darwin was right, then natural selection was definitely coming to get me at the wrong time. I’ve got muffin jammed in my throat and a potential date later with Hollywood’s latest bad boy. Um, what? I can’t die now. Of course that’s how it would happen though. Finally, I pseudo meet the guy of my dreams, well, my naughtiest dreams and now I’m going to fall victim to choking on a muffin? No fucking way.
I stand up and try heaving myself over the chair to perform some sort of Heimlich maneuver on myself. No go. Jane walks right over to me, I can see through my watery eyes and she winds up, slamming me one on the back, as hard as she can. I don’t know if she did it because I was choking or maybe just because she was annoyed. No matter her true reason, the muffin is dislodged and yours truly is now breathing again but slowly dying of embarrassment. “Miss Parker, please sit down and be quiet. Chew your food properly. You’re an adult, I hope?” I expect laughter but all of the women around the table are too enthralled with the pictures of Ashton finger fucking this girl, while I try to steady myself and use water to quell the burning in my throat. It doesn’t do much though, because I too, am completely baffled by the whole scenario.
“Oh my god, he’s so hot.”
“What I’d give to be that girl.”
Jane picks up the photo and studies it. “My only question is who is he looking at when he is fucking this beautiful blonde beside him?”
My face turns bright red and I don’t know if it is from almost choking to death or because I’m flustered. I can’t help it but a stupid, girly, over-the-top squeal escapes my lips. Keep it together, Trish. Fuck sakes.
“Miss Parker, since you have been so animated during this meeting, I’m assuming that your latest installment of the, oh what is it called again… your… column…must be phenomenal. Why don’t you tell us what you have? We are all dying to know.”
Her sarcasm and forgetting the name of my column stings worse than any damage a hornet could ever do. Typically, I don’t speak at these meetings. I sit there, quietly, diddling my thumbs while everyone talks about celebrity this and that. Then, when everyone leaves, Jane asks for my column, reads it over there and tells me if I did a good job or not. I never speak in front of the group. She is testing me and I am so caught off guard, I am certain I’m going to fail. I ju
st continue to sit there, stunned, unsure of what to do next.
“Go on. You do have something prepared, do you not?”
I nod and slowly stand up with my column in my hands. I can’t help but take a sip of water and end up coughing some of it up. My esophagus has just been through the ringer and she is about to put me through even more embarrassment and torture. I steady my hands to the best of my ability, stand before the group and begin. “Um. This month in the Trish Dish I talk about sex in public and how it affects not only the parties involved but also, the people who watch it. I’m trying to go for a take on exhibitionists and voyeurism here in New York and how more and more couples are getting adventurous with their sex lives.”
The room is silent. What the fuck? Last month I wrote about anal sex and Mexican food and now I offended them with sex in public? You had to be fu…
“It’s perfect. I’ll read it now,” Jane interrupts my thoughts, holding her hand out in front of her. She’s on the other side of the table, at least twenty yards away. Good luck if I am going to slide it that far, so I gather my papers and they tremble in my hands as I walk towards her.
“How many words is it?”
“1500,” I hand it to her, nearly dropping it as I do. Smooth move, Trish.
I watch her scan it over, quickly. As I do, I can feel the eyes of the other women on me and all I can look at, is the picture of Ashton and the blonde girl from last night. My mind races and in this moment. I might be the most nervous I have been in my entire life. The boss is testing me and I’m sure my job is on the line, while I anticipate the fact that I have a date with Hollywood’s latest and hottest bad boy tonight. I need someone to pinch me but I don’t trust anyone in this room. I’m sure they would take it too far and end up using me as a human punching bag.