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Breaking the Rules

Page 19

by Cat Lavoie


  “Sure.” Ethan reaches over and as he stretches to give me my purse, a bunch of papers fall with a thump on the table.

  “What’s this?” Ethan asks, holding them up.

  “It’s just cooking school brochures. Adam gave them to me last night.”

  I can see that Ethan wants to roll his eyes but is trying very hard not to. We’ve had the cooking school discussion before and we’ve agreed that my financial situation wouldn’t allow it. We’ve also agreed to stop talking about it but I can see that he’s forgotten all about this agreement.

  “Doesn’t Adam know any better? Isn’t he the perfect example? He doesn’t even own the place and he’s killing himself trying to keep it afloat. At least when the Quid finally goes under he won’t be the one losing all the cash. And this new restaurant you’re working on? It’s probably going to close within a year of its opening. I’m not making this up. The statistics are horrible. It’s a tough business and it’s very unstable. Very few survive. I just don’t want you holding on to something that’s unattainable.

  “Adam just thinks I’d be good at it, that’s all,” I say, making a grab for the brochures.

  Ethan sighs. “You’re a great cook, Roxy. No doubt about it. It’s a great hobby to have. But you’ve seen the TV shows. In a real-life kitchen, you don’t make pasta while sipping a glass of wine and chatting with your friends. It’s go-go-go and rush-rush-rush while Gordon Ramsey screams at you to hurry up and calls you names. And it’s not just a question of talent. You can’t afford another loan with all your debt.”

  There it is again. The D-word. I can’t take two steps without being reminded that I owe more than I’m worth.

  “I really need to get back to the office.” I grab my bag and get up from the table, suddenly very exhausted.

  Ethan holds up the brochures. “So, I guess we can throw these away?”

  I nod and look the other way while he rips the paper to shreds. This is the reason he will never get his hands on my credit cards. He’d violate them with scissors as soon as I had my back turned.

  “So, I’m going to call Mother and have her set everything up,” Ethan says, putting his hand on the small of my back and guiding me out of the deli.

  I smile and nod. It’s so much easier just to agree and let things happen.

  “We’re going to have an amazing life together,” Ethan says, lifting up my chin and bending down to kiss me. “I am going to love you and take care of you until we are old and gray and have a bunch of grandchildren running around our yard.”

  “Sounds perfect.” I wrap my arms around him and we walk back to the office and talk about the wedding like two adults. No arguments and no battles over nothings that don’t matter. Everything would be perfect if it wasn’t for Ollie hiding out in the back of my mind. I shouldn’t be wondering whether he’s written to me or if he’s called while I’m holding Ethan’s hand and planning our big day.

  I need to put an end to this.

  The elevator takes so much time getting to the lobby that I almost consider climbing up the stairs to the fifteenth floor. I would totally do it if the Kilborn offices were on the second level. Or third. I draw the line at fourth.

  The elevator finally arrives and I hurry inside and press the button, checking my phone again to see if Ollie’s called. Nothing. I wave to Tali as I run to my desk and she gives me a confused look. I can explain later. I’m on a mission. I log into my email and see that the only messages I have are a half-dozen emails from Greta and a chain letter promising years of bad luck if I break the chain. Emma is such a sucker for these things. Delete.

  Nothing from Ollie. Maybe the miracle I prayed for happened. Maybe he never got my drunken message. Who am I kidding? I’d never be so lucky.

  I look around me to make sure that Greta isn’t going to sneak up on me and open a blank email.

  Dear Ollie.

  No. Too serious.

  Hey there Ollie!

  No. Too causal. Maybe I should just skip the greeting and get right to it.

  I take a deep breath and start typing.

  I’m sorry about what happened the other day. I had too much to drink and I didn’t know what I was doing. Please forget I ever left you that message.

  All the best, Roxy.

  I hit the send button before I have the chance to change my mind. I know it would be better if I talked to Ollie in person rather than over an email, but I’m scared of talking to the real him and I’m even more scared of talking to his voicemail. His email inbox and I still get along, though. Until I do something to make it loathe me.

  The phone rings as I’m about to open one of Greta’s emails. She’ll most likely tell me that I forgot to do something she never asked me to do until now. Which probably needed to be done last week.

  “Greta Kilborn’s office, Roxy Rule speaking,” I say, scanning Greta’s message and trying to figure out how I can explain the concept of time and space to my boss without sounding condescending.

  “Hey, Rox.”

  My blood freezes and I spin around in my chair to face the wall. I don’t want anybody to see the look on my face, which is probably a mixture of extreme fear and embarrassment mixed with mild self-hatred. It’s hard to believe that there was once a time when a call from Ollie would be the highlight of my day, and now all I want to do is hang up the phone and hide under my desk.

  “Hey, Ollie.”

  I know I should be the one who takes the lead here, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I try to force the words out of my throat but for a few long and agonizing moments, there’s only silence between Ollie and I. Silence and static.

  “It’s been an interesting couple of days, hasn’t it?” he asks, and I can hear the smile in his voice. Not a patronizing smile. But an Ollie smile, like the kind he gave me when he realized that I threw out the bag of plastic bottles he’d been collecting because I was too lazy to put them in the recycling bin. If he forgave me for killing the Earth, maybe he’s willing to forgive me for being a complete flake?

  “It sure has. So I’m guessing you got my messages. Both of them?” I ask, wincing. His call can’t be a coincidence.

  “Yup. I wanted to call you after you left that... um, intriguing first message. But I figured something else was coming so I waited it out a bit.”

  Am I that predictable?

  “I’m really sorry.”

  “Listen, Rox. You don’t have to explain. I understand. I’m sure you’re going through a stressful time right now with everything going on. But there’s just one thing I want to know.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat. “What’s that?”

  “Did you mean what you said? In the message.”

  I hate that I need to think about this. No. No, I didn’t mean a word. Why is that so hard to say? I turn around and look at the picture of Ethan and me on my desk. I’m smiling and I look happy and in love. Ethan is my future.

  “No. No, I didn’t. I drank too much and...”

  “You really don’t need to explain. I just wanted to hear you say it.”

  “Okay,” I say, wiping away tears with the back of my hand. Why do I feel like I’m breaking up with my best friend? And can I still consider him my best friend when we barely talk and when we do talk to each other it’s only to apologize?

  “I have a lot of work to do so I should get back. But you take care, Roxy. Keep in touch, okay?”

  I’m so sick and tired of hearing us say that to each other. I feel like throwing my stapler and hitting somebody. Anybody.

  “I will,” I say, digging my nails into my chair’s armrests. I will not let anybody in this office see cry. “Take care.”

  I put the phone down, close my eyes and take a deep breath to keep my heart from beating out of my chest. Everything is going to be fine. This is just the cycle of life. Some things end and new things begin. My friendship with Ollie may be winding down but I’m getting married and starting a whole new life. When a door is slammed in your face, a window
is supposed to open, right?

  Forgetting about Greta’s email, I dust myself off and make my way to Tali’s desk to tell her the good news. And also to warn her about what makes a party trick inappropriate for a country club wedding.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I taste a spoonful of garlic mashed potatoes and add a pinch of salt. It’s Sunday night and I’m making roast chicken for Emma, Tali and Adam. I woke up this morning and realized I had absolutely nothing to do and that scared me. If I stayed in bed and did nothing, I’d have way too much time to think, so I decided to throw a very last-minute dinner party. Everything fell into place. Adam had one of his rare days off, Tali didn’t have a date and Emma wasn’t busy with a project. I wanted Ethan to join us, but he said he thought it was a good idea for me to spend as much time as possible with my friends before the wedding. I didn’t have the nerve to ask him what he meant by that. Why does Prudence Covington want us to register for a 12-cover dinnerware set at Williams-Sonoma if we’re not going to have friends over once in a while?

  “Here comes the booze,” Adam says a little while later as I’m pouring wine in Emma’s glass. “Quick, Em. Hide Roxy’s phone.”

  I stick my tongue out at him and reach for a can of Diet Coke. At some point during my hangover, I vowed to never drink again if the room stopped spinning and I intend to keep my promise.

  “I think Adam’s just happy we’re making fun of somebody else’s screw-ups for once,” Emma says, winking at me.

  Adam downs his drink with a smile. “Oh, yeah. Feels good.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot.” Emma reaches for her bag and pulls out a few thick magazines. “I brought some after-dinner entertainment.”

  “Miss Halpert, I didn’t think you had it in you.” Adam takes a closer look at the magazines and all the excitement in his eyes is gone in a flash. “They’re bridal magazines.”

  “Of course, what did you think they were?” Emma asks.

  “Never mind.”

  Tali and I stare at Emma until her innocent little mind catches on to Adam’s filth-ridden one.

  “As if,” she says, punching Adam on the shoulder. “The only man I want to see naked is my Dean.”

  Adam smiles and takes a long sip of wine. “That makes two of us.”

  We all laugh and continue eating until all the food is gone. My stomach feels like it’s going to explode, which isn’t the best feeling to have when I’m about to look at pictures of wedding dresses I’ll have to squeeze myself into.

  “This would look great on you,” Adam says, flipping through the pages of the magazine. “I love the mermaid look.”

  “I do not want to look like a sea creature on my wedding day.”

  Tali points to another picture. “How about this?”

  “It looks like lingerie,” I say. “Where’s the rest of the dress?”

  “You are way too picky,” Adam says, grabbing the wine bottle and downing what’s left of it. “You’ve barely got eight months left to pick a dress and have it fitted.”

  “Stop stressing her out,” Emma says, ripping the magazines away from Adam. She turns to me and smiles. “So, how glamorous is it to be working for Lucas Williams’ opening?”

  I catch Tali’s eye and look away. She knows the truth. There’s nothing glamorous about what I’m doing. Nobody is pouring me a glass of champagne while I run around faxing documents and getting everyone coffee. And instead of being exclusively bossed around by Greta, I now also have to report to a leggy blonde named Melody who has a fake tan that makes her look like an orange. I know she thinks I don’t belong on her team because her team is filled with people who have experience and college degrees. So I get stuck doing what nobody else wants to do, which also includes eating the free donuts we get every morning. That’s the only semi-glamorous perk.

  I clear my throat and try to sound enthusiastic. “It’s great. Really awesome.”

  I can’t bring myself to tell Adam and Emma that my promotion isn’t really a promotion and that I’m stuck right where I used to be. Maybe I’ll tell them when I can talk about it without feeling like the office joke.

  Tali asks for more wine and I’m grateful for the distraction.

  “I don’t have any more wine but I have coffee,” I say, coming out of the kitchen. But my friends have forgotten all about their thirst and are now looking through a photo album I usually keep hidden away. I must have left it lying around when I was dusting the bookshelf this afternoon.

  “How come I’ve never seen these pictures?” Adam howls. “You and Ollie were so cute when you were young.”

  Adam is pointing at a picture of Ollie and me during a seventh grade school trip to the Bronx Zoo. We have our arms around each other and we’re making monkey faces in front of the monkey exhibit. We both have a mouth full of braces and Ollie—in the throes of a growth spurt—towers over me.

  “How’s Ollie doing?” Emma says, flipping to the next page and smiling at a picture of my father dressed up as Santa Claus with a crying Izzie on his knee.

  “He’s doing great,” I say, but I don’t think anyone hears me because they’re too busy laughing at how ridiculous I looked in Izzie’s hand-me-downs. I haven’t been able to email or call Ollie ever since we spoke on the phone the other day. I want to reach out to him, I want to know how he’s doing, but I can’t bear to talk to him after what happened. And since I know he tells Rachel everything, she must know by now that I made a fool of myself on his voicemail. Maybe they even laugh about me, who knows? The only contact we have is the emailed jokes he sends me every now and again. Things that go around his office. Funny pictures. Funny stories. British humor I don’t get. But I’m just one name in a list of about fifty people he sends them to. Maybe I should just be grateful that I’m still on the list.

  I sit down next to my friends and watch them flip through snapshots of my past. My sisters and I playing with Billy, the black lab we adopted from the pound. Izzie and her lemonade stand. Steffi in the ballerina outfit she refused to take off. Me, the boring sister in the background, stuck between the Know-It-All and the Drama Queen.

  When Adam turns to the last page of the photo album, I stare at the only two pictures stuck to it. The first one is of Ollie’s mother pushing him in a stroller. Everything about her, from her tousled brown hair to her easy smile reminds me of Ollie. In the next picture, Ollie is dragging Steffi along our driveway in a little red cart. I don’t need to turn the picture over to know what Mom has written behind it. I can almost see her slanted cursive.

  Stefanie and Oliver. August 1989.

  “What’s wrong with Steffi?” Emma asks but, before I can answer, she shakes her head. “Sorry, I forgot.”

  That picture was taken just a few weeks after the accident that killed Ollie’s mom. Steffi’s scar has faded over the years, but in this picture it shines brightly under her right eye and there’s a cast on her left arm. At first glance it looks like a happy picture, Ollie is smiling and Steffi is laughing, but there’s just something a little off about it. Maybe it’s the shadows creeping up on the driveway. Or maybe it’s because you can catch a glimpse of Ollie’s father watering the lawn while looking at his son, his face drawn and angry, probably unaware that my father was capturing the moment.

  I close the album and place it on top of the bookshelf where it should have been all along. My friends know about what happened to Ollie’s mom and Steffi. They also know that dragging up the past—especially that part of our past—is not something I particularly enjoy.

  “I need caffeine,” Tali says, breaking the tension. “I had so much wine I think I might show up for work drunk tomorrow. Again.”

  Emma shakes her head and follows me to the kitchen. “So, how are you? Really.” I look at her and know that I won’t be able to fool her and shouldn’t even attempt a lie.

  Trying to keep my hands busy, I pick up a dish towel and rub at some imaginary spots on the counter. “Well...”

  “It’s the wedding, isn’t it?” s
he asks before I have a chance to tell her about my last conversation with Ollie. “Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll make sure we find you the most perfect dress.”

  She puts her arms around me and I rest my head on her shoulder. “Thanks,” I say, fighting back tears. Why can’t Emma see right through me? But even if she did, I don’t think I’d have the energy to explain to her why dresses are the furthest thing from my mind right now.

  Adam and the girls leave a little before midnight and, instead of going to bed and dealing with the mess later, I head for the kitchen. I’d much rather clean than let my mind rest and wander.

  I plunge my hands in the hot, soapy water and scrub a particularly dirty casserole dish. The apartment is so quiet that the sound of the water sloshing around in the sink seems like noise. If Steffi was here, she’d probably be watching television with the volume up so high it would drown out Izzie screaming at her to turn it down. Instead, Steffi is at Mom’s house and Izzie is out doing whatever it is she does when she goes out. Steffi has been spending more and more time at Mom’s. She’s been cranky and moody lately and I think it has to do with her swollen ankles and the fact that it’s so hot in the city right now that she can’t walk a block without being drenched in sweat. Mom’s air conditioning has made things a bit more bearable, but I bet she’s giving her the third degree with every breath.

  Crash. The front door opens with such a bang that I’m sure I’m in the middle of a home invasion. I drop the pot in the sink and water splashes all over my face.

  “Oh my God, Roxy. Have I got news for you,” Izzie says, marching into the kitchen. She stops and looks at me. “You’ve got suds in your hair.”

  I let out a breath and grab a dish towel to clean myself off. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”

  “I was just too excited to come back and tell you what I found out. Steffi isn’t home, is she?” Izzie asks, looking around.

  “No, she’s sleeping over at Mom’s. What did you find out?” I know I need to sit down for this.

 

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