by Lila Monroe
“What about you?” I ask. “Is Zach still on the strike, too?”
Della sighs. “Yup. I’m trying everything: sexy lingerie, switching his DVDs with porn. I was even masturbating on the couch when he came home from work yesterday. He just walked right past me without saying a word.”
The doorbell rings, and I go to pay the delivery guy. Since I’m in crisis mode here, I went crazy, and basically ordered everything. I’ll be eating plum duck for days, and I can’t WAIT.
Melissa snorts when I bring the bags over. “Are you expecting the defense line of the Bulls over?”
“Now that would take her mind off this stupid bounty,” Della cracks.
I groan, and shove an eggroll in my mouth. “I’m never dating again.”
“Not so fast.” Della looks thoughtful. “You know, this could be an opportunity.” She gets a glint in her eyes that usually signals the approach of a really bad idea. Or several of them. “I mean, you said you wanted romance, right? And all these guys are lining up to sweep you off your feet.”
“And into bed,” I remind her. “For a fifty-thousand-dollar prize!”
She waves away my objection. “So, you don’t have to fuck them. Just play along! You get to reap all the benefits—moonlit walks, romantic dinners . . . And who knows, maybe you’ll wind up meeting someone great.”
“She’s right,” Melissa agrees. “You’ve got all these guys wanting to date you right now! And Della’s right—you need to start looking at this as a blessing, not a curse.”
“Have you even checked your messages lately?” Della asks, picking up my phone from the coffee table and checking the screen. “253 voicemails? Oh my god, Lizzie!” she squeals.
“I know,” I say sheepishly. “I just haven’t had time to listen to them all yet and—”
“You’ve got time right now, though, right?” Della puts it on speaker before she hits play.
“Hey sexy,” the first message begins in a deep baritone voice, and we all burst out laughing. “I got your number from Stu, remember, he’s your mom’s neighbor’s cousin’s workmate? Anyway, he said I should give you a call. I’d love to take you out sometime, show you the sights.”
“Like your bedroom ceiling.” Della smirks.
“Next!” Melissa yells.
“Hi, Lizzie? This is Adam Silverstein, I guess you remember me as Mr. Silverstein, from fourth-period math.”
“Oh my god, eww!” I cry. “He’s like fifty!”
“Next!”
We cycle through them all. There are messages from old boyfriends, high-school flames, guys from work, even. Guys I’ve never even met before, which worries me for a minute as I wonder how they got my number in the first place . . .
“So who’s it gonna be?” Melissa asks, a mischievous look on her face. “You need to pick one.”
“Says who?” I challenge. “Come on, you guys. This is like clicking randomly on some OK Cupid profile and expecting him to be a cute, hot, funny, solvent dude without major mommy issues or a shrine to his ex stashed in a bedroom closet. He’s a unicorn! He doesn’t exist.”
“One more,” Melissa begs, and hits play on the next message. This time, a voice I actually recognize comes through the speakers.
“Hey, Lizzie . . . it’s Alex. I don’t even know if you’ll remember me, but I recently moved to the city for work, and I saw on Facebook you’re living here now. Anyway, I’d love to reconnect. Give me a call sometime.”
I sit bolt upright. “Alex McNally. Holy shit.”
“Who’s Alex?” Della asks, walking over to the kitchen counter and pouring herself another glass of wine.
“He’s this guy I knew in college,” I say, still in a state of disbelief. “He rode a motorcycle,” I say dreamily, “a Harley. And he kind of looked like Jordan Catalano on My So-Called Life. You know—the floppy hair and the deep, soulful eyes.”
“I loooooved Jordan Catalano,” Melissa moans, rolling her eyes so far up in her head so that for a second she resembles a zombie. “But can he read?”
I laugh and toss a pillow at her. “Of course he can read!”
“So what happened?” Della demands. “Why’d you guys break up?”
“Well,” I say with a sigh. “We were never really together or anything. We just made out a few times after some dumb parties, but that was about it. I had a huge crush on him, though. I’m sure it was painfully obvious.”
“Ding ding ding, we have a winner!” Della hands the phone to me.
“I don’t know . . .” I pause.
“Go for it!” Melissa urges me on. “I mean, what do you have to lose anyway?”
“My self-respect, dignity, and precious moments in the limited timespan of life?” I stare at the phone in my hand warily, like it might self-destruct if I so much as push a button.
“Seriously, Lizzie,” Della says, her hands on her hips. “What are you waiting for? Call him back! This is your chance to actually get what you want! Unlike the rest of us. And if you fall for one of these guys, I might even get my husband back.”
And as much as I want to disagree, I know she’s right. After all, if not now, when? There’s no better time to start living on the edge than after your heart gets completely pulverized.
Bring it on, I think as I find his message and hit the call back button, clearing my throat and taking a deep breath, summoning all of my courage as the phone begins to ring.
“Hi, Alex, it’s Lizzie. I’d love to go out with you.”
26
Lizzie
Alex arranges to meet me in the middle of Central Park at lunch the next day, which is thankfully enough time for me to blow-dry my hair, slap on a home facial, and go get Vilma the evil witch of the West Village to wax me into shape again. Still, as I loiter by the ice-cream truck in my best vintage sundress, I’m wondering if I should just turn around and run. I mean, could I really have a fun date when I know the only reason he called is because of the stupid bounty?
“Lizzie?”
I turn. Hello. “Alex, hi.”
“God, it’s been so long. What, five, six years?”
“Don’t, you’ll make me feel old!” I groan, and he laughs. Just like that, the years slip away, and I relax again.
He kisses me on the cheek. He’s just as gorgeous as I remember, with those penetrating green eyes I used to lie in my tiny dorm bed and dream about. He’s cut his dark hair that used to messily hit just at his collarbone, but his beat-up leather jacket is still intact—though he turns up on foot, not on a Harley, which momentarily shatters my biker chick fantasies of the two of us riding off into the sunset.
“I sold that a while ago,” he tells me, as we walk towards the Sheep Meadow, a flat expanse of grass where sunbathers lie out on towels clad in tiny bikinis and kids play Frisbee in the warm light. “When I was teaching English overseas. Thailand. Best experience of my life,” he adds.
Take that, Jake, I silently cheer. Smart and self-sacrificing.
“What are you up to now?” I ask. The smell of hot dogs and popcorn is in the air, and I feel optimistic for what feels like the first time in just about forever. Even the birds are singing high up in the trees overhead, which I take as some kind of good omen.
“I’m an environmental lawyer, of all things, but I’m thinking of maybe someday starting a charter school in the Bronx.”
“Seriously?” I ask, impressed, and he nods. “Wow. That’s really admirable.”
“I think it’s important to give back,” he says, looking sincere.
“Oh, definitely!” I agree.
“You haven’t changed, you know,” he says with a smile, giving me a sidelong look. “Still as pretty as ever.”
I flush at the compliment and try to maintain my composure. “Thanks,” I say, as we continue to walk across the meadow. At the far end I see a brightly colored hot-air balloon, with a guy tinkering with the fastenings.
“Great.” Alex waves over. “We’re all ready to go.”
My mou
th falls open. “Is that for us?”
He smiles again, reaching down and taking my hand. “You game?” he asks.
Eek. So, it’s pretty well established at this point that I’m not great with heights. In fact, next to flying on a plane, a hot-air balloon ride is basically my worst nightmare. But he’s gone through a lot of trouble to arrange this, obviously, and it is super romantic, that’s for sure. If I just don’t look down, I’m sure I’ll be fine, right?
Famous last words.
But before I can answer him, my phone starts buzzing in my bag, and when I see who it is, my stomach dips. Jake’s name is lit up on the screen. I don’t know how he does it—it’s like he has some secret radar that lets him know when I’m about to have a good time, just so he can come along and ruin it.
“I’m so sorry,” I say to Alex apologetically. “I have to take this—it’s work.”
“No problem,” he says. “I’ll make sure we’re all set to go.”
“Hey, it’s me,” Jake says when I finally pick up.
“What did I tell you?” I demand, annoyed that he’s finding a way to sneak back into my thoughts again. “You don’t speak to me unless it’s a super-massive emergency. I’m hanging up—”
“Wait!” he says quickly. “Don’t! It’s about work.” I can hear what sounds like a rustling of paper on his end. “I’ve got the shipping info for the pieces from Danforth’s collection.”
“We could’ve talked about this at the office,” I point out, watching as Alex strikes up a conversation with the guy who’s untying the ropes of the balloon. “I was there all day.”
“Look, Lizzie.” I hear him sigh. “I’m really sorry, and I can understand if you’re angry with me.”
“I’m not angry,” I say, trying to sound upbeat. “I mean, I should really be thanking you for opening up my eyes to this amazing opportunity. I have guys lining up to date me. I’m actually on one right now!”
There’s a pause. “But, Lizzie, you can’t be serious.” Jake sounds pissed. “You know they only want one thing.”
“Like you can judge,” I snap back. “So, I decided what the hell. I’m finally dating like I always wanted to! In fact, I’m about to get into a hot-air balloon right now. So I really do have to go.”
“A hot-air balloon?” Jake laughs. “Lizzie, you can’t even—”
“And then I have another date after this one,” I say triumphantly, walking towards Alex with a smile. “So I can’t talk. Bye!” I say before he can respond, pushing the END button on my phone and turning it off completely.
Next thing I know, I’m standing in the wicker basket of the hot-air balloon, trying not to lose my shit. The flames above turn off and on as the balloon begins to lift off the ground. Alex grabs a bottle of champagne from the guy operating the ride, and he opens it with a flourish, the popping of the cork drowned out by the hiss of the flames above. He pours the champagne into two glasses and hands me one.
“To reconnecting,” he says warmly, clinking his glass on mine.
“Uh huh.” I take a sip. I try to concentrate on the bubbles tickling my nose and the taste of the champagne, but there’s a familiar feeling in my stomach, the rolling and tumbling that happens any time I’m up in the sky instead of down on the ground where I belong, and I take a deep breath, trying to look anywhere but over the side of the basket or up into the huge expanse of blue sky that suddenly seems to be all around us.
“So, tell me more about what you’ve been up to since college,” Alex asks, leaning over the side of the basket in a way that makes me want to grab him by his belt loops and pull him back to safety. A wave of nausea comes over me, and I take another quick sip of champagne, willing my stomach to settle down.
“Well.” I try to smile through my queasiness. “After college I worked a couple of retail jobs before I got my break at the Met.” I try not to notice that we’re now looking down on the treetops, and all I can think about is the fact that if this balloon crashes, I’ll likely be impaled on a collection of extremely spiky branches. I pull some air into my lungs and try to smile again through a sudden wave of nausea, my stomach lurching violently. “And then I—”
I stop mid-sentence and close my eyes for a second, reaching out for the side of the basket to steady myself.
“Hey,” Alex asks. “Are you okay?”
“Uh huh!” I squeak, tasting bile in the back of my throat.
Oh, no. Not now. You will NOT vomit all over this nice young socially-conscious man.
Swallow it! Swallow it all!
“It can get a little bumpy.” Alex smiles. “But don’t worry, you’ll get used to it. When I was in Thailand, I learned how to kite-surf, this is just like it. You just bounce, and roll, and sway with the breeze . . .”
Oh shit!
The unthinkable happens: the contents of my stomach come rushing up my throat. I push Alex away, turn around and vomit over the edge of the basket, trying not to open my eyes and look down as I puke—probably all over the scantily clad sunbathers in the park.
I straighten up with a groan—in time to see Alex’s horrified expression.
Date over.
27
Jake
I figured Lizzie might need some time to cool off, so I decide to give her some space. But over the next week, it’s like some dating tsunami hit the office. Every day, I’m forced to watch Lizzie get picked up for lunch or dinner by a procession of guys, each more good-looking than the next. She walks through the hallways giggling and whispering into her phone, and her office could probably double as a Hallmark factory, with all the huge bouquets that arrive. They’re scattered on every available surface—along with hampers of champagne and French cheeses and boxes of pink frosted cupcakes.
Worst of all, she seems happy—really happy. Which should make me happy for her. But I’m not. In fact, every time I see her walking out the door with one of these guys, or unwrapping yet another box of Godiva chocolates with a dreamy smile, I want to punch something. But there’s no use getting mad since it’s nobody’s fault but mine.
Which somehow, pisses me off more than anything else.
Looking back on it, I definitely should’ve told her about the bounty from the beginning. But even though I technically had nothing to do with the damn thing, I know that she’ll never forgive me. Who am I kidding? She barely even looks at me anymore. And to make matters worse, every time I see her get up from her desk in one of those sundresses she wears that show off every one of her lush, gorgeous curves, all I can think about is that night in the hotel, how fucking incredible it felt to make her scream my name—and how hard I came all over that amazing body.
I want her again. Fuck, I need her. But she looks at me like dog shit she’s scraped off her shoe, and she shows no sign of forgetting any time soon.
Monday morning, we’ve got a staff meeting, so I head to Morgan’s office. The whole team is there, gathered around the table, but Lizzie barely glances my way.
“We’re two weeks out from the opening,” Lizzie starts, looking down at her notes on her iPad. “I’m happy to report that we’re right on track. We’ve secured all of the major pieces, with the exception of the necklace from Bring Me the Stars.” She looks up at me, acknowledging my existence for the first time. “But Jake is working on that.”
I nod in agreement, not wanting to interrupt.
“The events team has been reaching out to as many stars as possible for the gala. I’ll let them fill you in, but we did just hear today that Marlena Stafford has RSVP’d yes!”
“THE Marlena Stafford?” a guy in Asian Arts who’s wearing an actual ascot around his neck blurts out. “Movie star Marlena Stafford? Been in a hundred or so amazing films Marlena Stafford?” he says in awe.
“The very same.” Lizzie beams, and I’m surprised she doesn’t burst out in a tap dance. “She was just eight years old when she played Janey in Bring Me the Stars. She’s the only living cast member, and she’s been a recluse these past years, but she
’s agreed to make an exception for the opening to do some press—a few photos and interviews. She still loves the film and she wants to help support its legacy.”
“This is all very impressive, Lizzie,” Morgan says, staring at Lizzie with an expression not unlike actual respect. “Now,” she begins again, walking over to the far end of the room and switching the lights off, projecting a list on the screen at the front of the room. “Let’s discuss the checklist for the gala . . .”
After the meeting, I walk over to Lizzie, who’s fielding congratulations from her co-workers, chattering happily.
“Good job getting Marlena,” I say, feeling a little hurt that I had to find out at the meeting with everyone else. “You didn’t tell me.”
“Yeah, sorry!” she says in a chipper voice, looking up and blinking at me from behind her glasses like I’m a stranger. “I’ve got a lot going on—I’m juggling a ton right now. And speaking of which . . .” She looks down at her watch. “I have to go—I’ve got a lunch date!”
“What’s it today?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “Flying lessons?”
“Ha!” she laughs breezily, slinging her overstuffed bag over one shoulder. “Thankfully, no. Just a simple picnic in the park.”
“Sounds nice,” I say grudgingly as Simon from acquisitions comes waltzing in, his face breaking into a huge grin at the sight of her. Simon is decent enough, I guess, but so tweedy and correct that he’ll probably chastise her for eating with her hands.
“You ready, Lizzie?” he asks, holding up a large bag from Dean and Deluca, a baguette sticking out of the top.
“You bet!” she says happily, hustling out of the room, and the minute she’s gone the room is so quiet—too quiet.
I finish up and head home, but I can’t help imagining them together on a patch of grass somewhere in the park, eating bread and cheese and looking into each other’s eyes. I can feel the jealousy rising up in my chest, and every time it does, I try to shove it back down. I have no reason to feel this possessive. So we hooked up a few times? It’s not like we were dating or anything—not even close.