Anti-Romance

by Cassia Leo

  Laney: Bye, Mom.

  I set the phone down on the bathroom counter, then I flushed the toilet and leaned back after applying my anti-itch cream. “Ha. Little does Mr. Surly Neighbor know that he just gave me the perfect ending to a perfect blog series about dating a politician,” I said to Hero as he hopped onto the ledge of the bathtub to get closer to me. “We’ll see who’s laughing when I rake in thousands of followers—and dollars—with this story.”

  Hero turned away from me to look at something on the wall, not at all impressed with my knack for exploiting my love life in exchange for piddling amounts of money and fame.

  The view was breathtaking from Senator Grossman’s campaign headquarters on the sixth floor of a nondescript tower of offices in the middle of downtown Austin. The east-facing wall of windows gave us peons in our cubicles a gorgeous view of the blazing sun rising against a periwinkle-blue sky. The concrete and glass buildings framed the sunrise, like a film director framing a shot. This view was nothing short of glorious. It was almost enough to make me reconsider stringing Rick up by his balls for giving me gonorrhea.

  Yes. I went to the free clinic over the weekend—neither of my jobs provided healthcare—and found out that Rick Hart, digital director for the Grossman campaign, gave me, Laney Hill, gonorrhea. Part of me wondered if I should break the news to Rick in a tweet or a video on Vine. I decided against it after realizing it would be a spoiler for my blog subscribers to find out the ending to our courtship before I’d even posted about our first date.

  I arrived early at the campaign office this morning, hoping to catch Rick on his own, tapping away on his phone or his MacBook as he checked the hundreds of messages and tweets, which would have been flagged by his underlings since he’d left the office the day before. But when I arrived, I spotted him in his office, seated across from Senator Grossman, looking very relaxed and chummy. I would have to wait until Grossman was gone. I wasn’t interested in getting Rick fired. All I wanted was for him to own up to his filthy ways before I turned in my letter of resignation.

  Tapping my foot as I repeatedly glanced over my shoulder in the direction of the glass wall surrounding Rick’s office, I felt my throat slowly closing with anxiety. Their conversation had been going on way too long. If I didn’t interrupt them now, I’d have to confront Rick just as the rest of Grossman’s staff trudged in at eight a.m. with their morning lattes.

  What I really wanted to do was slip my letter of resignation under his door and run like hell out of there. Despite my feisty, attention-seeking online persona, I actually loathed being the center of attention, and I avoided confrontation with the same vigor with which I avoided commitment.

  I chanced one more glance in Rick’s direction, then I scooped my phone off my desk and dialed George’s number. “I can’t do it. I’m just going to slip the letter under the door and leave.”

  George thanked someone—probably the barista at the coffee shop he went to every morning—then let out a heavy sigh that crackled in my phone’s speaker. “You can’t let him get away with stealing your STD virginity, Laney. Do you need me to go there for support? I wouldn’t mind giving that Klingon a little piece of my mind.”

  “STI,” I corrected him. “And what are you going to do? Make him do long division until he dies of boredom?”

  George sidestepped my jab by thanking the barista again and taking a beat before he replied. “Delaney Vanessa Hill, if you don’t go in there and give that douche-nozzle a fresh squirt of attitude right in his douche-y face, I’m going to announce his gonorrhea status on Twitter. And you know Mr. Potato-Face will see it there.”

  “Mr. Potato-Face?”

  George had a weird habit of making up nicknames for people based on their appearance, but I had yet to hear this nickname for Rick. Had he been keeping his nickname for my paramour a secret for the past three months just to spare my feelings? My insides warmed a little at this thought, until I remembered I had just been infected with an STI by Mr Potato-Face.

  This was my life.

  The sounds of cars rushing past came through the speaker as George stepped out of the café. “Laney, we’re going to the Continental tonight. You have…twelve hours. You can slip the letter under his door or you can stuff it down his throat. Your choice. See you at eight.”

  I pulled the phone away from my ear and blinked a few times as the call disappeared. This was it. I had to go in there and tell him.

  My stomach tightened into knots as I stood from my chair and made my way toward Rick’s office. His eyes met mine as I traversed the final ten feet and knocked on the glass. Grossman turned toward the door and flashed me his tight-lipped, no-teeth politician smile. He was in good shape, but his cheeks and jowls were fleshy, with a nose and eyes that drooped, only accentuating his plastic grin.

  Grossman and Rick nodded at each other as they rose from their chairs. Rick beckoned me inside and I opened the door slowly as Grossman approached, his eyes locked on my face, as if he were willing himself not to ogle my chest.

  “Please come in, Laney,” Rick said, motioning to the seat Grossman had vacated. “You’re just the person I needed to see today.”

  Grossman nodded as he brushed past my shoulder. Closing the door behind me, I could feel my heart thumping somewhere behind my eyeballs. Why would Rick want to see me today? Did I do something wrong?

  I almost laughed aloud at this thought. What the hell did I care if I’d done something wrong? I was here to resign. I shook my head as I took a seat across from Rick.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked, reaching for his glass of water, taking a sip as I stared back at him in confusion. “You were shaking your head,” he clarified.

  “Oh, no. I mean, yes. Actually, I—”

  “Laney, I have bad news,” he interrupted me. “We’re going to have to let you go. The primaries are next week and it doesn’t look like we’re going to close the gap in Iowa or New Hampshire. We have to start making some cuts.”

  “I’m—I’m sorry. You’re firing me?”

  He reached up and adjusted his blue tie as he leaned back in his chair. “Don’t think of it as firing. We’re…switching gears to a post-primary strategy.”

  “And that strategy includes firing me?”

  He let out a deep sigh. “Laney, I know it’s a tough time to be unemployed, but—”

  “You gave me gonorrhea!”

  His left eyebrow shot up as he glared at me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You and your…Mr. Potato-Face! You gave me a fucking STD! And now you’re firing me? Is this your way of breaking up with me?”

  “Mr. Potato-Face?”

  “Are you breaking up with me?” I shouted.

  His eyes widened. “Laney, keep it down.”

  “Is this because I’m not a Republican?”

  He rolled his eyes. “This has nothing to do with your not being a Republican. I’ve recruited an unpaid intern to do your job. I told you, we’re cutting back as the primaries draw nearer.”

  “An unpaid intern? Are you going to give her gonorrhea too, or was that gift just for me? It’s funny, because I don’t remember seeing that perk in my contract.”

  His jaw twitched as he bit back an angry retort. “You’re not suited for this job. I have to do what’s best for the campaign.”

  “Someone better suited for the job? Who is it? Mia? Raquel? Who will you be fucking in this office when I’m gone?”

  He smiled at something or someone behind me. Looking over my shoulder, I shook my head in confusion. He rose smoothly from his chair and glided to the office door, where a dowdy mouse of a woman in her early twenties stood with her hands clasped in front of her. Her puffy green parka drowned her lanky body almost enough to detract from her stringy blonde hair and lack of makeup.

  “Laney, meet my wife, Iris. Iris, this is the assistant I was telling you about, Laney Hill. She was just telling me how much she’s going to miss working here, but she’s glad to have mo
re time to work on her blog.”

  He knows about my blog?

  He knows my true identity?

  He’s married?

  Holy shit! That was a threat. He was threatening to expose me.

  My hands went cold as the blood rushed away from my limbs. I shook my arms out to redistribute the blood flow to my extremities, then I slowly stood from the chair. A tremor of anger shivered through me as I approached Iris and Rick near the door.

  My gaze locked on the hand he had placed on her shoulder. He leaned in and planted a tender kiss on her temple and she blushed. She blushed!

  I felt as if I’d entered the Twilight Zone. Who was this man who was married to this plain woman? This man who cheated on his innocent wife, spreading his STIs the way he spread the political message? This wasn’t a man. This was a virus. A virus that needed to be wiped out.

  “Your husband,” I said, holding Iris’s gaze as I tried to ignore Rick’s watchful glare, “was a great boss. Best of luck in the primaries.”

  Then I left.

  “My vagina hurts.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t really need to know that,” George muttered as we walked down South Congress Avenue toward The Continental Club.

  “You’re the one who was going on and on about how I needed to shove my letter of resignation down Rick’s throat for taking my STI virginity. Now I can’t talk about my STI symptoms with you,” I complained, looping my arm through the crook of his elbow.

  He leaned over and kissed my forehead as we continued walking. “I’m sorry. Please feel free to talk about your dirty, painful vadge all night.”

  I nudged his shoulder and he flashed me a sly grin. George was the only friend among our small circle who had known me since high school. We weren’t friends in high school¸ but we knew of each other. I wasn’t cool enough in high school to associate with class president George Bratton and his prom-queen girlfriend, Jen Silver. But Jen went to university on the West Coast and class president George quickly was cast aside for the captain of the debate team at Stanford.

  “Hey, it’s not dirty and it’s far from uncommon. It’s estimated that one in five Americans is living with an STI. Just because I trusted a Republican computer geek when he said he was clean doesn’t make me dirty!”

  He chuckled at my statistics. “Pardon me for being so uncouth.”

  I rolled my eyes as we approached the neon sign marking the entrance to The Continental Club. “The good news is that my STI will be gone once the seven-day treatment is done, but Rick will always be a dirty, cheating Mr. Potato-Face.”

  We paid our $8 cover charge to the friendly doorman wearing a Dallas Cowboys baseball cap. The Continental Club was our fallback location when we couldn’t find any good bands playing or any good art exhibits or festivals to attend on the weekends. The Continental could always be counted on to have a decent band, a dark atmosphere, a good crowd, and a strong pour.

  We found Ivan, Tanna, and Breck seated at a table near the stage. There were no extra chairs, so George and I would have to ask the neighboring table if they could spare their seats when they left—assuming we outlasted them. We always did. We had a habit of closing down the Continental.

  Compared to George’s handsome, Ivy League looks, Ivan was the typical Austin hipster of the bunch, with ironic facial hair and uber-expensive vegan-leather shoes to match. George preferred to keep himself clean cut and well pressed. To George, being an accountant was a way of life, not just a profession. Ivan preferred the late nights and late morning wake-up calls that came with his job as a freelance graphic designer.

  Then there was Tanna and Breck.

  Tanna stood up first and held out her arms to me. “I’m so sorry about Rick, sweetie,” she cooed as she enveloped me in a warm hug.

  I sighed into her curly blonde hair, which smelled like cherry blossoms. “Just another story for another column. I’ll be fine.”

  She patted my back a few times before she let go and cast me a pitying look. “It’s okay to admit that this was more than just a story, Laney.”

  I chuckled as I leaned over and bumped cheeks with Breck. “It wasn’t. Do you really think I was going to get serious with a Republican?”

  Tanna rolled her eyes as she sat down.

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” I clarified, so as not to offend her as the only Republican at the table.

  She held up her manicured hand to stop my platitudes. “It’s fine. I get it. You think all Republicans are idiots.”

  “We do not!” Breck insisted, placing her hand on Tanna’s arm.

  I held my breath and tried not to sigh or roll my eyes. Breck was my best friend when we shared a dorm at UT. Nowadays, it seemed she and Tanna were teamed up against me despite their differences.

  Breck had grown up in poverty in the Acres Homes neighborhood of Houston. She made it to UT on a soccer scholarship, but she ended up transferring to a needs-based scholarship so she could continue her studies in computer science. She now worked as a programmer for an up-and-coming social-media startup, which was slated to put Instagram out of business.

  The pain of my breakup with Rick was easily forgotten in the shadow of Tanna’s angst over being the only Republican at the table. I didn’t resent Tanna for it, but I did feel like this progression was inevitable. I had burdened the group with years of bad—orchestrated—breakups. My relationship problems seemed minuscule in comparison to everyone else’s hardships these days.

  Well, to everyone except George.

  He flashed me an easy smile and leaned in to whisper in my ear. “I guess we shouldn’t invite her to our pro-communism rally. Eh, comrade?”

  I shoved him away to show my distaste, but I smiled inside. I was formally reintroduced to George a few years ago while temping for Dialtone Records—the record label he worked for as an accountant. I had just gotten out of a messy breakup with a musician, and George, in his infinite wisdom, explained to me the psyche of a musician with such clarity that I actually began to feel as if the breakup wasn’t my fault. No one could feed my self-delusions the way George could, and no one could dismantle my self-delusions just as swiftly. It was a strange self-aware codependency we shared, which Breck and Tanna found unhealthy and Ivan silently encouraged through his lack of protest.

  My history with Ivan was less intricate. I had seduced him for the blog a couple of years ago, but he was so introverted that I eventually felt obligated to confess my intentions to him. I then invited him to hang out with me and the gang, and we’d been forcing ourselves on him ever since. Sometimes, we had to physically drag him out of his apartment to get him to interact with other humans. But once he got a few drinks in his system, it was well worth the effort.

  After our first round of drinks, Tanna laid her hand flat in the center of the table and cleared her throat to draw our attention. George and I glanced at each other then turned back to gawk at the flashy rock adorning her ring finger, neither of us looking particularly impressed.

  “Oh, my God!” Breck exclaimed. “He popped the question? How? When? Tell me now!”

  George placed his large hand on the back of my neck, gently massaging me to ease the tension as Tanna explained how her boyfriend, Peter, had popped the question at a restaurant two nights earlier. I closed my eyes and tried to focus on nothing but the relaxing sensation of George’s hand on my neck, but I kept imagining Tanna and Peter at their favorite Italian restaurant—which looked like Applebee’s in my mind—him getting down on one knee on the filthy commercial carpet between the appetizer and dinner course. She would jump up and down with glee, then she’d snarf down a plateful of fettuccine alfredo topped with rubbery grilled chicken.

  Four lemon drops later, I was feeling much better about the ridiculous lack of precious stones adorning my fingers. “I’ll be gonorrhea-free in four days,” I announced as Ephraim Owens, tonight’s musical act, finished his fifth song of the night.

  Breck smiled and shook her head. “I love you, Laney. Gonorrhea and all.�
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  “I love you, too!” I declared, ignoring the sour looks from the neighboring tables.

  “How about me?” Tanna whined, pushing her fifth champagne cocktail farther away from her, as if this would stop her from finishing it. “You guys don’t love me anymore?”

  “Peter loves you enough for all of us,” I said, waving off her insecurity as I reached for my glass.

  Breck’s brown eyes widened. “That’s a horrible thing to say,” she protested, turning to Tanna and grabbing her hand. “Of course we love you. And I’ll be your maid of honor.”

  Tanna’s eyes lit up. “You will? I love you, too!”

  I was unable to hide my cringe.

  Ivan laughed as he pointed at me. “You should see your face,” he said, his voice raspy as he hooted with laughter. “You’re like a kid who just found out their parents are divorcing.”

  I smacked his arm. “Not funny.”

  He rubbed his arm and suppressed his smile as he probably silently recalled the story of how my father left my mother and me on my birthday.

  I shook my head. “Do you think I’m jealous or something? Because I’m not. I don’t want to get married. Marriage is just an official form of codependency. I already have a codependent relationship with this man. Right, Georgie?”

  I batted my eyelashes at George and he tilted his head, smiling back at me as if I had just paid him an enormous compliment.

  “You’re damn right,” he replied with conviction. “How about you and I go outside and make the smokers uncomfortable with our lack of cigarettes?”

  I hiccupped as I flashed him a lazy grin. “You always say all the right things.”

  He stood from his chair and stuck out his elbow for me to latch on to. I unsuccessfully ignored Tanna’s annoyed expression as we set off toward the back exit of the club. The door opened onto a small courtyard, or lot, where a half-dozen people were standing around smoking cigarettes. Despite the fact that the Continental had an ancient cigarette-vending machine, no one was permitted to smoke inside the building, per city ordinance. George and I had made a habit of going out back to have secret conversations without Tanna and Breck, and to also annoy the smokers who were only out there to enjoy a quiet, solitary drag.