by Megyn Ward
“She’s not my girlfriend,” I say, casting what I hope looks like a casual glance past him at what will, at some point, be a limestone portico. She’s standing in the sun, leaning against my dusty work truck. Seeing her makes me want to say it again—she’s not my girlfriend—just so I can remind myself.
I had my chance a long time ago and I blew it.
A few days after I took her home all those years ago, Cari showed up at the fraternity. She wasn’t there for me. She was there for Rob, deciding to give him one more chance. One more chance turned into eight but over the course of the six months that it took him to really fuck everything up, Cari and I became friends. And that mind-blowing kiss she laid on me? three years and a seemingly endless parade of douchebags later—it was like it never happened.
“Why the fuck not, bro?” Jeff says, jerking my attention away from shit that happened a longtime ago. While more responsible and intelligent than most of his counterparts, he’s just as nosy and irritating.
Thanks, Patrick. You’re the best friend a girl could ask for.
That’s the text I got back after wishing her luck on her interview today.
Friend. That’s what I am to her and that’s all I’m ever going to be. Not that it’s any of Jeff’s business.
“Your boys forgot to install the hallway laundry shoot.” I slap my blue prints into his hand. “That’s gonna set the drywall crew back a day, easy,” I say, breezing past him, smiling when he hisses out a curse before stomping away, to round up his crew for a tongue lashing.
Tossing my hardhat on a work table by the front door, I run a hand through my hair and fix a friendly smile on my face before emerging from the dark mammoth of glass and wood and into the sun. “Hey,” I call out to her as I stride forward. She’s dressed in what she’s dubbed her interview costume—a tight, knee-length black shirt and a silky white top that dips just low enough in front to offer a hint of cleavage. The only difference is the low-heeled pumps she’d bought specifically for interviews were replaced with a pair of cherry red stilettos I’ve never seen her wear. They had to be at least five inches, lifting her from her usual 5’9 to something closer to my own 6’4. There was something strangely erotic about having her nearly tall enough to look me in the eye.
Tucking away my decisively unfriendly thoughts, I forced an easy-going smile onto my face. “How’d it go?”
“I got the job,” she squeals, throwing herself at me, and I steel myself against the feelings I’m about to be assaulted with. She wraps her arms around my neck, giving me no choice but to catch her, letting my hands land lightly against her waist. She smells like Cari—flowers that bloom in the dark and night falling rain. The scent of her, combined with the shoes that bring us hip to hip, goes straight to my cock and I have to set her away before she feels it stiffen against her belly. If I’m too abrupt, she doesn’t seem to notice.
“Told ya so,” I say, giving a lock of her long, caramel-colored hair a playful tug.
“I start Monday,” she crows, so proud and excited, the smile on her face threatens to split it wide open. “Want to know what sold her on hiring me?”
“The fact that you’re talented, brilliant and excited at the prospect of making her coffee every morning for the unforeseeable future?” I’m teasing her and she rewards me with a playful punch in my shoulder.
“No, jerk,” she shoots back, clear blue eyes narrowed down to slits. Despite the fierce look she’s giving me, I know she’s not really mad. She’s got a strawberry birthmark that goes from pale pink to fire engine red in about 2 seconds when she’s pissed or excited. It’s peeking out beneath the neck line of her blouse, the color of cotton candy. “This.” She shifts to the side to show off the ratty, paint-splattered canvas bag she carries everywhere. Before I can ask, she explains. “She said it was a painter’s bag. She could tell I was serious about art, not just some fresh out of college bimbo applying because I want to use the position to meet a rich man.”
“Speaking of rich men, is James taking you out to celebrate?” The second I say it, I want to punch myself in the face. She’s grown out of college bros, but she still dates assholes and James is her latest. He’s in his mid-thirties and just made junior partner at a law firm down town. He’s financially solvent, good-looking and treats her like shit. Which means he’s the perfect guy as far as Cari’s concerned.
The smile on her face starts to crumble but she gives it a boost, smoothing her hands down the front of her skirt. “It’s just a stupid receptionist job at an art gallery,” she says, immediately discounting herself. I can imagine it’s something she’s heard James say to her a hundred times. “It’s not a big deal… it’s just that you texted me this morning and I thought you’d want to know how it turned out.” She offers me a weakened version of her earlier smile.
I briefly entertain thoughts of kicking the shit out of James for making her feel like her accomplishments don’t mean anything.
“Look,” I say, noticing the whining screech of power saws and the thunk of nail guns have gone silent behind me. “First of all,” I start over, lowering my voice so the gaggle of hardhat-wearing gossips I know are watching us from the house can’t hear me. “You’re not a receptionist. You’re the personal assistant to Miranda McIntyre—the hottest, up and coming, art broker in Boston.” The last is a direct quote from our text conversation last night and it pulls another smile out of her. “Second of all, it’s dollar shots at Gilroy’s tonight. I’ll round up the crew and we’ll celebrate. Drinks are on me,” I say, just to make her smile again.
It works. She doesn’t just smile, she laughs. “Can I bring James,” she says, moving toward the ancient Carma Ghia she brought with her when she moved here for college.
The thought of spending all night watching her make eyes at James while he paws at her and scopes the bar for his next victim makes me want to vomit. I want to tell her no. That he’s an asshole and I want to kill him every time I have to watch him put his hands on her. But I don’t. I can’t. Instead, I just smile and say, “Of course.”
Five
Cari
I woke up late. My interview at Gallery Blu was at 10 o’clock so I set my alarm for 7, giving myself plenty of time to get ready. I woke with jolt at 8:30 and scrambled out of bed and dove into the shower, only to find that my roommate, Nia, used all the hot water.
Typical.
Teeth chattering from the cold, I quickly dried and dressed, progress stalled when I couldn’t find the subdued black pumps that I’ve been wearing on job interviews. So, I was stuck with wearing the only other pair of heels I own, a pair of bright red stilettos I’d bought on a whim and never wore because the make me look like an Amazon warrior who moonlights as a hooker. Irritated, but in a rush, I stepped into them and hurried into the kitchen to grab something for breakfast that I can eat in my car. Rummaging through the fridge, I found the carton of blueberry yogurts I bought yesterday at the store. Where there should have been four, I found only one. Again, typical. My roommate’s motto is: what’s mine is mine and what’s yours is mine too.
I yanked the last yogurt free from the carton and straightened, slamming the refrigerator closed. The rush of air fluttered a piece of paper trapped under magnetic Tiki bottle opener a girlfriend brought me back from a trip to Hawaii.
C ~
Justin proposed!!! We’re getting married in a
few weeks so I need you out by the first of the month.
Thx,
N.
p.s. I borrowed your black heels.♥
I let out a strangled scream, crumpling the note in my fist before tossing it in the sink. Bitch ate all my yogurt, stole my shoes and kicked me out, all in one morning. The worst part is that the first of the month was less than a week away. Left with nothing else to do, I pulled my Tiki bottle opener off the freezer door with an angry jerk and jammed it into my bag along with the last of my yogurt and a spoon before storming out the door.
God must’ve felt sorry for me becau
se despite my perpetual tardiness, I arrived at the art gallery with ten minutes to spare. Deciding to use my time wisely, I dug into the nuclear wasteland I call a purse and pulled out my yogurt. Between bites, my phone let out a chirp. I had a text. It’s either my roommate telling me she’d packed my room up and left the boxes on our front porch or it was James, bored at work, asking me to send him nudes. Not that I ever did. When he asks, I just send him a stock photo off Google of a pair of tits. He’s never noticed the difference.
Looking at the screen, I see that the text is from neither of them. It’s from Patrick.
Patrick: Good luck today!
Just seeing his name on my cell screen makes me feel better. Smiling, I tap out my answer and hit send, strangely anxious while waiting for his reply.
Me: Thanks… I’m nervous.
He replies almost immediately. Patrick’s never been one of those guys who takes forever to text back.
Patrick: Why? The luck was just a formality.
You’re gonna get this job. I know it. Now get
out of your car and get in there before you’re
late.
He’s on a construction site, 30-miles away and he knows exactly what I’m doing. Sitting in my car in front of Gallery Blu, trying to calm my nerves before I go in and try to land my dream job. Well, not my dream job exactly. I want to own my own gallery someday. But that takes time and someone willing to show you the ins and outs of the art game. I’m hoping Miranda McIntyre with be that someone for me.
Me: You’re the best friend a girl could ask for. ♥
I don’t wait for a reply this time. He’s right, if I don’t hurry, I’m going to be late. Sliding out of the driver’s seat, I sling my paint-splattered canvas bag over my shoulder and hurry across the street.
The interview takes less than twenty minutes. Miranda, while intimidating at first, with her jet-black hair and flawless porcelain complexion, set me at ease almost immediately. “Nice shoes,” she said while I settle into the seat across from her, gaze roving over my clothes, probably trying to reconcile my professional outfit with the canvas satchel that James makes me leave in the car whenever he takes me to dinner. “You’re an artist.”
I look down at the bright red stilettos and feel the blood rush upward to collect in my chest. I don’t blush like normal people but anyone who knows me and cares to pay attention can tell how I’m feeling by gauging the strawberry birthmark, just below my collarbone. Right now, it feels like a red-hot brand against my skin. “Oh…” I look down at my ridiculous red shoes for a second. “I’m not—not really. It’s more of a hobby.” It feels like more than that to me. Painting is something I have to do. Compared to it, even breathing feels optional. “Or maybe therapy.”
When I look up, I find her studying me, eyes narrowed, trying to figure out if I’m for real or not. “You feel like you need therapy?”
I fight the urge to look away again. “Don’t we all?”
She doesn’t answer me, she just smiles. “Let’s take a walk.”
She gives me a tour of the gallery and it’s beautiful. A second-floor loft space with floor-to-ceiling windows that let in gorgeous light that sparkles against the black granite floors. She asks me about my tastes in art, half testing me but also half interested, and seems surprised when I’m not afraid to disagree with her about preferences in style and medium. “Usually, the people who come in here for interviews wouldn’t know a Pollack from a Warhol. They think selling a painting is like selling a car,” she tells me, her tone thoughtful. She stops in front of the bank of windows looking over the street, directly above where I parked my car. “Yours?” She says it without looking at me, pressing a perfectly manicured nail against the glass.
Despite the fact that she complimented me on my worn bag and ridiculous shoes, I’m embarrassed. James calls my beloved Carma Ghia a death trap and refuses to be seen in it. “Yes,” I say, feeling warm blood creep across my chest. “I worked summers all through high school to buy it. When I came here from Ohio for college, I couldn’t bear to leave it behind.”
“Ohio?” Miranda says, shooting me a sidelong glance. “I had you pegged for California. One of those ritzy little beach towns… Santa Barbara or maybe Malibu.”
The only thing ritzy about the tiny town I grew up in were the crackers in our kitchen cabinet. I don’t know why, but for some reason, the fact that she took me for a rich California girl makes me feel good. “I’ve never been to California,” I tell her. “Before I moved here, I never even saw the ocean.”
She makes a small sound in the back of her throat that might have been approval before she looks back at my car. “It’s long hours. Hard work. You’ll be dealing with temperamental artists and jackhole customers who’ll treat you like hired help. I’m a raging bitch most of the time and I’m not likely to apologize for it—to you or anyone else,” she tells me plainly, shifting her gaze so she’s looking directly at me. “But I can pay you enough to keep you just about the poverty line and offer you 2% commission on any paintings we sell. If you’re interested, you can start on Monday.”
Driving back into the city, I’m feeling pretty good. It’s been nearly a year since graduation and it’s been rough watching all my friends move on from college life to stable adult living. Before Miranda McIntyre offered me the position as her personal assistant, my life felt about as stable as a skyscraper built on the San Andreas fault line.
When we graduated, he immediately started looking for a position in an architecture firm and the job offers started rolling in almost as fast. The problem was they were all thousands of miles away from Boston. Thinking about Patrick moving away was unbearable. Besides Tess, he was my best friend. Living here wouldn’t be the same without him.
He’d been about to take an offer in Seattle and been miserable about it when his cousin, Conner offered him the solution to everything. “Why don’t you and Dec go into business together? He’s already got the construction thing locked down—you design them, he builds them. Should be a piece of cake,” he said, gesturing with a beer between his cousin and his older brother before he set it down in front of the guy who ordered it. It was Thursday—Ladies Night at Gilroy’s, the family bar—and Conner never missed a Ladies Night.
It had been the perfect solution, the fact that it’d come from Conner, notwithstanding. Three years in and Patrick and Declan are flying high, designing and building custom homes for Boston’s mega rich.
Pulling up the drive, seeing the house Patrick designed, knowing his dreams were coming true was almost enough to take my mind off the fact that while I’d landed my own dream job, it didn’t fix the fact that I was on the verge of homelessness. Not wanting to worry him, I kept it to myself. There would be plenty of time to figure it out tomorrow.
Now, chugging down the freeway, I think about the glass and metal buildings clustered together, skyscrapers wedged between Old City Hall and the Old State House. That’s where James is.
On impulse, I dive off the freeway and pilot my death trap to the parking garage attached to the building that houses James’s law firm. I flash my parking pass and smile at the attendant and he lifts the gate with a tip of his hat. James gave me the pass a few months ago, so I can bring him lunch. Lunch inevitably leads to a quickie in his office. The prospect usually excites me. Today, I wished I had a sandwich to throw at him instead.
Parking as close to the elevator as I can manage, I grab my bag and hustle toward it, catching the car just before it started its way up. Leaning over, I tap the button for the 22nd floor, smiling at the young mother and her daughter who were getting off on the 7th.
I know what he’ll say when I tell him I got the job. He’ll give me a bland, vaguely annoyed smile that I bothered him at work and say, Congratulations, babe. How ‘bout you lift your skirt so we can celebrate.
When the doors slide open on seven, I almost get off with the mother and her daughter. Telling James can wait. I want to go home and change. Go get Tess and head to Gi
lroy’s so we can plot how to get my roommate back and toss back too many dollar shots while we wait for Patrick and Conner to get off work.
Instead, I stay put, offering the little girl a small smile when she waves at me while her mom drags her off the elevator. I’ll tell James. Maybe he won’t be a complete dickface about it. Maybe he’ll tell me I look nice and take me out to lunch to celebrate.
I step off the elevator and into the small reception area at the center of the pod of offices where James’s is located. As a junior partner, he shares an assistant with four other lawyers but it’s still a big deal. He’s an attorney at one of Boston’s biggest firms and set to make full partner before he turns 40. He’s successful and soon, I will be too.
“Hi, Janine,” I say, breezing past his assistant and she looks up from a stack of files, a ready greeting on her lips that falters when she sees me.
“Hi—oh, Ms. Faraday,” she says loudly, scrambling from behind her desk to wedge herself between me and the door to James’s office. “Mr. Templeton isn’t here. He’s at—in with one of the partners, discussing a case.”
I know she’s lying. When James is in a meeting, she lets me wait in his office, no problem. I reach past her and turn the knob, pushing the door open. Janine makes a small sound and turns her face away. “I’m sorry, Mr. Templeton—I tried to…”
Her voice, directly in my ear, fades away. James isn’t in a meeting with a senior partner. He’s in his office with someone who looks barely old enough to wear make-up. He’s got her bent over his desk, her skirt jacked up around her waist. His pants around his hips. The girl—and she is a girl. If she’s older than eighteen, I’m the Queen of England—has James’s tie stuffed in her mouth to muffle her moans while he pounds into her. Despite the tie in her mouth, she doesn’t look like she’s under duress. She looks like she’s loving every minute of it.
James looks up from the girl sprawled across his desk and glares directly at me. The worst part of it is that when he sees me, he doesn’t even stop fucking her. Doesn’t try to explain or make excuses. He just looks at me like I don’t matter. Like I’m nothing.