For the rest of the show, I glue my eyes to the runway stage, no matter how painful it is not to look at Oliver and what he’s doing. The clothes whoosh by as I try to focus my brain on the show and the show only. Fuck all this girly crap and stupid love shit. I’m a strong career woman, and I need to remember that.
When it’s done, I go over my questions before heading backstage to get some interviews.
“Amazing show, what was the inspiration?”
“The makeup was flawless and fit the concept, how did you come up with the looks?”
“Will consumers be able to buy the pieces in all of their stages?”
I pose question after question, putting my brain on a one-track highway of interviewing and working. No room for a tech millionaire and his leggy blonde date.
I’m just finishing my last interview with Vadim Crabber himself, and as I thank him and turn, a hand darts out and grabs my arm.
I don’t need to look to know whose rough hand is pulling my elbow. His scent envelops me, and I feel like I might be suffocating. Is this how people who sit in saunas feel? I’ve never done it, but all of the dry heat clogging my throat right now is bound to kill me.
Turning, I’m face-to-face with the man who has plagued my dreams for the past couple of months. The one whose name I try not to think about when my boyfriend is having sex with me.
I’m so fucked, it’s not even funny.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Oliver
Seeing someone who used to mean a lot to you, after a certain amount of time, is always awkward.
Gemma stands in front of me like I’m a spider and I’ve caught her in my web. And I dance around going up to her. People mill about, doing interviews or simply gathering their things to get out of there.
I don’t know what to do with my hands. Do I keep them hanging by my sides, put them in my pockets? Do I shake her hand? No, that would make everything even more awkward. I could just be a normal person and go up and say hi. But we are former lovers, even though that word makes me cringe, and it’s like society dictates that we have to do this tense mating dance before we can greet each other.
Finally, I’ve had enough. “Hey, Gemma.”
She turns as if she hadn’t been staring at me from across the room the entire fashion show. “Oh my gosh, Oliver, how are you?”
Her smile is faker than half of the women’s tits in here, and I almost grind off the sealants on my molars gnashing my teeth together. I’d rather dip my hand in a deep fryer than have this weird interaction.
“You saw me. I was sitting right across from you.” My words are so deadpan that Gemma actually laughs before covering her mouth.
“I guess I did. I never was a good liar. Well, I haven’t heard from you in a while. How have you been?” I can tell that her statement is a slight. She is pointing out that I didn’t contact her.
And if we’re being honest, which I always tried to be with her, I’m not up for the pretending and politeness. I’ve been on the single scene for too long, have dealt with too much of the reserved flirting and half-truths. I’m so exhausted from it, that I’m not willing to do it anymore.
“I’ve been okay. And you didn’t want to hear from me. Don’t pretend you still wanted to be friends.” I’m wasting no time with small talk bullshit.
Gemma scoffs. “Whatever, Oliver. Don’t pretend you wanted me to be your girlfriend.”
We both sound childish and people leaving the runway show are staring. But I don’t care. I haven’t been able to talk to her, to stand in front of her, in two months. I’m not wasting this time on political correctness and trying to keep quiet.
“Actually, I’m pretty sure I told you how I felt and you turned it down. Let’s remember things the way they actually happened. There was no precursor to the way that you stopped what we were doing.”
I can’t help but stare at her, even when I’m arguing with her. She’s radiant, absolutely flawless with her skin still tan and the body that I’m itching to get my hands on encased in a black leather mini-dress.
“It was only supposed to be sex!” she yelled at me.
“Well, obviously it turned into more. Can’t you feel it?!” I pulled her hand to my chest, hoping she could feel the way my heart was beating double time. It was a stupid move, something a hero would do in some romantic comedy, and I felt cheesy. But it was sincere, she could feel my heart wheezing for her.
“That’s because we were fucking stupid, Oliver! Men and women can’t just have sex. The definition of sex is the connection of two people using their most intimate body parts. Body parts that they keep hidden to the public beneath clothes, but show someone that they trust enough to share this crazy, sexual act with them! I don’t even know why I agreed to do that with you. It never ends well. Men and women can never just be friends with benefits. You can’t just smother feelings with orgasms and dirty talk.”
Gemma looks away from me, her slim shoulders shrugging like she hasn’t even convinced herself there is still nothing here. The whiff of vanilla that touches my nose from when she flips that long wavy chocolate hair.
“So then let’s not make it about sex. Take all of the physical off the table. I’ll show you that I haven’t stopped thinking about you since that day in the coffee shop.”
I dig my phone out of my pocket and click in the Don’t Text Her application. Holding up the only phone number in the app, I pass it to Gemma.
She takes my phone, her beautiful hazel eyes lighting up with the shine of the screen. I know it takes her a few minutes to comprehend what she’s looking at. But I see it when the understanding sets in.
“You … you blocked my number? How twenty-something of you.” A small smile tilts up the left side of her mouth.
“A guy has to do what a guy has to do, even if he is an old man. But yes, I blocked you. I almost slipped … once. A lot of tequila was involved.” I step towards her, craving to be in her space.
“Tequila usually is where there are slips involved.” She isn’t shying away, but she’s also not giving me more right now.
“I’m taking you out. It’s not a question. So tell me what day and time, and I’ll be there.”
Turning on a black suede dress shoe, I walk out of the runway dressing room and out into the New York streets before she can tell me no.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Gemma
Plop. Plop. Plop.
What is it about being in a body of water that makes your mind wander? Whether it was a pool, a hot tub, the fucking ocean, a bath … there was something ethereal and thought-provoking about immersing yourself.
Or maybe it was because your pores shrunk up and fingers got so pruney that it made you think about what your life would be like when your skin actually wrinkled for good. Who knows?
Oliver fucking Anders. Gemma fucking Morgan. I’m not sure who I want to scream at more. Why did he have to be at that stupid runway show, whose clothes completely tanked on all of the fashion magazine’s radars. Why did he have to follow me? Say those things?
And why do I, the girl who has a boyfriend who finally treats her right, keep going around and around in my head about the things he said? This bathtub is way too small for the universe of thoughts running through my mind, and I nurse a glass of wine like it will cure all of the ache inside of me.
A knock on the door sounds. “Will you please tell me what happened?”
I may have freaked Sam out when I stormed into the apartment this afternoon and didn’t even say hi. I’d grabbed a bottle of merlot and locked myself in the bathroom two hours ago. She probably thought I was slitting my wrists or something.
“I’m fine, Sammy. I just need some time to think.” I wasn’t fine at all. We women just loved to use that phrase to alert people that we weren’t fine.
A very distinct head-hitting-wood sound came from the other side. “Okay, but don’t go all Meredith Grey and try to drown yourself in the bathtub. I don’t have hair nearly as good as Pat
rick Dempsey.”
That was her way of trying to get me to laugh and also telling me she was here for me, using a Grey’s Anatomy reference.
“Love you,” I whispered as I took another huge gulp of wine.
Exhaling, I surveyed the tiny, tiny bathroom. My body and the tub were the two largest objects in the bathroom, and for once, I kind of despised Manhattan. I lived in a shoebox, surrounded by millions of other people. It was loud and obnoxious; I worked grueling hours for pay that was too low. And yet, I’d never give it up for any other place in the world.
Kind of like Oliver. He wasn’t sexy or handsome in the traditional, knock your socks off way. He was too cocky and detached, he had too much money for his own good. Commitment and adoration were things he’d never bothered with, and I had no idea if he could actually make something between us last and work.
Yet, when it came all the way down to it, I wanted no one else but him. God, wasn’t that just so cliché?
Picking up my phone, and carefully holding it out of the tub since I’d dunked and fried a previous phone the exact same way, I opened a text message.
Gemma: You’re such a prick.
It doesn’t take him even a second to respond, like he was a 1950s teenage girl sitting by the phone waiting for my call.
Oliver: I know I am. The prickiest of all pricks. You can punish me anyway you see fit. No sex? I’m in. You want new Louboutins, tell me what color. How many?
That fucker. He knew expensive shoes were my goddamn kryptonite. They were like peanut butter to a kid who needs an EpiPen. I’d risk it just to get that buttery taste in my mouth.
Gemma: I have a boyfriend. One who is really good for me. One who is a trusted friend of yours.
Oliver: You said good for me. Not good to you. Or that you loved him, or even liked him.
I set the phone down on the toilet seat and bumped my head against the tile of the shower as I looked up at the ceiling. He was right of course, and had to come at it with that Oliver Anders token honesty.
Gemma: That’s low.
Oliver: That’s winning. And I didn’t get where I was today without stepping on a few toes. I’m serious about you, Gemma. I’m serious about us.
I wanted to cry, because of course he was saying all the right things. Deep down, women didn’t want the good guy. They wanted the bad boy that would finally change for them. They wanted to hear that someone would go to the ends of the earth. Slay the dragon. Fight the monster. Because really, love hadn’t evolved at all from the fairytales we’d heard as little girls. I wanted the impossible happily ever after. To have the prince place the glass slipper on my foot. For all of my hopes and dreams to line up and equal the exact person that I could have and not have all at the same time.
Gemma: What am I supposed to do? Cody is a good person.
I said it genuinely, because I was so confused that even my boobs sagged with questions. They ached on the sides. But that could also be because I was getting my period.
Oliver: But I’m the right person. For you. Let me take you out. One night.
Gemma: Not until I make a decision. I won’t do that, won’t lead someone along.
Oliver: So make a decision. And then call me.
Setting down my phone again, I swirl some of the bubbles around, weighing my decisions. Cody is the safe bet, the guy who will date me for a year or two and then take my best friend to pick out rings at an above average jewelry store. He’ll open doors and take me to his family reunions. We’ll get married, pop out two or three kids, settle into a comfortable existence with separate TV rooms and weight gain. Cody is the known option, the one that will never surprise me.
And of course, I’ll go with the risky choice. Because my heart and mind are already with Oliver. With his caustic tongue, his shrewd mind. The way he handles me in bed.
I’m a walking after school special and yet I won’t stop what’s coming.
The wind cuts through my cable knit sweater, leaving goose bumps across my skin. I warm back up with the pumpkin latte in my hands, October humming through my veins. In my beige ensemble, clunky brown boots, and olive green fedora, I am the definition of a basic bitch. And I couldn’t be happier.
Loving the pumpkin craze may make me a total commoner, but I can’t help it.
“Hey, beautiful.” Cody swoops in from the side, joining me on the bench in the middle of Bryant Park. I offer up my cheek and focus on a student walking out of the New York Public Library to distract myself from the nauseous lurch in my chest. Her bag is full of books, and I see a laptop sticking out of the top.
Glancing to him, he’s the picture of fall gorgeousness. He looks like one of those All-American Ralph Lauren models. He could be riding a chestnut-colored horse in the middle of this park, the wind whipping through his blond flow, and no one would think twice about it.
“Hi.” I smile, and take another sip of coffee.
No matter how awful breaking things off with Oliver was a few months ago, this feels worse. Cody cares about me, and I’ve come to care about him. I may have not been truthful throughout our time together, but he’s a nice person. He deserves better than this.
“Great idea to come here today, before it gets too cold. Then again, I love the winter village here around Christmas time. We should come ice skating.”
He was making plans, and I was trying to dump him faster than a self-tanner that just turned my body orange.
“Cody …” I was too cowardly to even form a good jumping off point.
The guy who probably never hears no for an answer crumples beside me in a big sigh. “You’re breaking up with me, aren’t you?”
Shame and guilt surge through me. I’m about to use the worst fucking breakup line in the history of forever and I can’t even help it.
“You’re perfect, Cody. Seriously, you have everything going for you. It’s just … I’m not perfect for you.”
His mouth falls open, and I want to sink into this park bench. “Did you just hit me with the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ line? That’s fucking lame, Gemma.”
He turns away, angling his body and his feelings from me. It’s self-preservation time for him.
“I’m sorry, I really am. I mean it though, you’re such a great guy, and I’m a damn fool. I had such a good time with you, and I … I feel like a jerk right now.”
I hold my hands out, trying to convey how much of a piece of shit I feel like. I realize, in that moment, that I’m just as bad as all the men who have ever led me on. Cody was my replacement for someone I wanted but was too scared to be with.
A heavy sigh sounds from his perfect chest. “I knew it though. Dammit, I thought if I just gave it enough time … if I won you over enough. But you were never here, not fully. It’s someone else, isn’t it?”
This was like ripping off a Band-Aid that never ended. “I … yes. It is.” I could only be honest now. I wasn’t going to get into it, but Cody deserved the truth. “I never meant to hurt you, and that sounds so cliché, I know that, Cody. I understand how stupid and … there is nothing to make this better. I tried, I wanted it to work, I did. But, there is someone else, and I don’t want it to be him, but it is.”
Cody nods his head furiously, like he’s trying to reason with the voice asking him whether he should yell at me or try to smooth it over and part gracefully.
“This guy … it’s Oliver, isn’t it?”
It’s almost like he smacks me in the face. Literally, I double back and spill a little pumpkin spice latte on my jeans. “Wha … what?”
“I saw you that day at the Yankee game. And, I’m not an idiot, Gemma. It was a little bit obvious about why you were at our work picnic when we first met.”
I bite down on my lip, hard. “I don’t want it to be.”
Cody laughed, but it was hard and annoyed. “But it is. Just … don’t let him break your heart, okay?”
Like I hadn’t already tried that. Like I hadn’t broken it off to save myself the trouble. When I look
back to try and say something else, Cody is already walking across the park, his hands in his coat pockets and his shoulders slumped forward.
Even as I broke up with him, he was looking out for me. Why did I do that?
I needed a vat of buffalo chicken dip and some Kleenex. I was about to do something so stupid and risky, that if I called my mother she would use my middle name in the sentence to scold me.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Oliver
How the fuck tech geniuses before me got up in front of all these people and didn’t vomit all over the stage is beyond me.
I’m so fucking nervous.
I wipe the rancid smell from my mouth as I splash cold water in my face in the bathroom of the huge conference hall we booked in the middle of downtown Manhattan. There are journalists, entrepreneurs, celebrities, other captains of the tech industry … all sitting in that crowd waiting for me to get up and speak about my latest product. About the project, the vision, that has filled my mind for the last two years. The sweat and blood I’ve poured into this, slaving away for the last year on conception and design, marketing and working out all of the kinks.
And here we are. At the product launch. In just hours, my new smart home system will be on every tech front page and website in the country, not to mention the world.
The bathroom door swings open as I’m contemplating how to get up on that stage without fainting, and in walks Cody.
Fuck. This is going to be awkward. The past week, I’ve felt like a seventeen-year-old girl trying to avoid the guy that broke up with her via text. Cody is my employee, and he’s a great one, but I know I’m the wedge that separated he and Gemma. I made a play for her, and for whatever reason she decided on, maybe what was in her heart, she used it to dump Cody. I know I told her to make a decision, and I was hoping she’d choose me.
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