by Sara Whitney
Jake
Dammit. She was going to have to forgive him eventually.
Forgive him but keep her distance because she never wanted to feel like this again.
Sixteen
Like the besotted idiot that he was, Jake listened to every last hour of the morning show on Tuesday, feeling sorry for himself and regretting everything. Mabel sounded cheerful, if a little flat, as she discussed the upcoming split with Dave, and relief and disappointment tangled into a knot in his chest. Relief that she’d come through yesterday okay and was performing like a pro. Disappointment that she didn’t sound as gutted by their swift, furious falling-out as he was.
As he listened, he packed up the belongings he’d scattered around his hotel room since July, which took all of six minutes. He kept himself busy for the rest of the show by reading the responses to Dave and Mabel’s announcement as it spread across social media.
@Ginab2_1, to @wncbfm: Don’t care who Dave’s on the air w/but he needs to stop dressing like such a slob, IMO
Shelby, on the station’s Facebook page: I’ve been crying since you announced the split. Please don’t do this PLEASE
@Nutz69, to @wncbfm: WHO THE FUCK CARES CAN YOU GUYS PLAY AIROSMTH
Toby, on the station Facebook page: congrats to maybell but that lady would be tons hotter if she’d cut her hair short and call me
That level of public scrutiny made him uneasy. No wonder Mabel had been so careful about hats and sunglasses during their first outing. He wouldn’t be able to handle the pressure. Also, that last guy was deeply mistaken, as absolutely nothing about Mabel would be improved by cutting off her hair.
The duo gave a cheerful sign-off, and Jake suspected that not a single listener would ever guess the behind-the-scenes turmoil that had gone into those breezy four hours. He snapped off the in-room radio, slid his laptop into its carrier, and shouldered his luggage. When he shut the room door behind him, he imagined himself leaving all his longing for Mabel behind. Forgotten in a nightstand. Abandoned in the corner of the closet. From now on, he was all about the job.
The sharp-eyed Thea—Christ, had the woman been on duty for twenty-four hours straight?—spotted his bulging suitcase when he stepped off the elevator, and she had his final bill printed and ready to go by the time he made it to the desk. “Here you go! Easy checkout, right?”
“Right,” he replied with 90 percent less perk than she exhibited. “Hey, thanks for the tip about the apartment.”
He was turning to leave the hotel for the last time when she executed her famous across-the-desk lunge.
“I know I gave it to you before, but here’s my number in case work ever lets up.” She winked at him and pressed a slip of paper into Jake’s hand with such force that her red-lacquered fingernails dug painfully into his palm.
He looked down at it blankly before offering her a vague thanks, leaving the hotel, and tossing his luggage into the back of his Jeep. It wasn’t until he’d cranked the engine that it dawned on him: the overly friendly Thea was interested in him. He groaned and thumped his skull against his headrest. That was the last thing he needed. His emotional turmoil over Mabel was already crowding out the work worries he should be addressing without adding a stranger’s romantic hopes on top of that. At least he was officially checked out of the hotel and could avoid any conversations about that in the future.
He shoved the paper with her number into the cup holder he designated for trash and pointed the Jeep in the direction of the station. Yesterday he’d hunted down a tiny office in one of the high-rise bank buildings in downtown Beaucoeur. He’d be able to move in by next week, and all he’d need to do was supply a desk and chair. Until then, he’d operate out of his apartment after a quick stop by the station today to collect a few files he’d accidentally left behind during his storm-out yesterday. If he didn’t bump into Mabel, he’d be okay. Probably.
When he walked through the door, there was no sign of her, but he was greeted by an unusually hassled-looking Dave at the front desk, phone tucked under his ear.
“Judy out sick today?” he asked when Dave hung up.
“Today and every day. She quit yesterday.”
The dour, gray-haired receptionist with the penchant for cat sweatshirts had up and quit? “No shit.”
“She didn’t like working for the new management,” Dave said. “Sorry.”
Jake shrugged. “I’m not the new management. What are you guys going to do?”
The phone rang again, and Dave looked down at it in distaste. “Find a new person as quickly as humanly possible, I hope. I’ve got way too much shit going on in my life to deal with this, but there’s nobody else around who can take care of it during the day. Certainly not my partner, because she hightailed it out of here the instant the mics were off.”
Because of you, Dave’s look said. Jake stood up straight and accepted the silent rebuke.
“I’ll talk to Brandon,” he promised, but Dave was already picking up the next call.
The man himself glanced up from his laptop when Jake entered the office.
“So Judy apparently—” he began, but Brandon cut him off.
“I know, I know.” Brandon jammed his fingers in his normally immaculate blond hair, and Jake didn’t bother to hide his smirk.
“Things not going as smoothly as predicted?”
Brandon pulled his hand away with a grunt. “I’ll take anybody. Find me a warm body for that receptionist position and she’s hired.”
Who the hell did he know in town? Brandon would just have to unfuck this one himself. “FYI, I rented an office in the Capital Bank Building downtown. I’ll work from there but will still be at your beck and call for updates and meetings. I assume that will suffice?”
“That will suffice.” Brandon leaned back in his chair. “Were you listening this morning?”
“I was. They did well.”
“Told you they’d fall in line.”
Jake pressed his lips together to stop his first response, which wasn’t diplomatic. “I’m getting the office set up today, and I’m billing the furniture to Lowell.”
Brandon reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, and handed Jake his credit card.
Mouth tight, Jake pocketed it. “I’m buying the expensive shit.”
“Dad would want you to have the best,” Brandon said with a vague wave of his hand. “He always did like you best of my college friends.”
Well, that was news to Jake; he’d only met Brandon Lowell Sr. a handful of times when the man had flown in to Chicago to visit his son. Then again, Jake had been the one busting his ass with his books or his internship while the rest of his friends became one with their red Solo cups. And there it was: yet more incentive to redouble his efforts to secure his partnership. Mabel was the red Solo cup he should have resisted.
He pulled out his phone to shoot Brandon a text. “Here’s the office address if you need it. When you’ve got paperwork for me that can’t be digitized, just let me know and I’ll swing by and pick up.”
After hours, of course. Anything to avoid temptation. If he laid eyes on Mabel right now, there was a possibility that he’d forget all his best intentions, throw her over his shoulder caveman-style, and force her to listen to his apologies until she forgave him or kicked him out.
His next stop was the furniture store, which was zero help. He passed the couch section and smiled at the memory of Mabel dramatically sinking onto each of them, swooning Southern-belle-style, to test them out. Then he lingered over the desk they’d picked out for the station. He’d wanted to tug her down onto the desktop in the middle of the showroom that day and kiss her silly, and he’d imagined making similar use of it in the station greenroom if they could ever steal a few minutes alone.
His thwarted hopes had him spinning away from the radio-station desk to examine the fussy oak desk next to it. God, he hated furniture shopping.
“Can I help you with anything, sir?”
Jake turned and d
id a double take. He wasn’t a short guy, but the employee who greeted him had him beat by several inches. The man was obviously a weight lifter, with tree-trunk thighs and bowling-ball arms straining against the khaki and cotton covering him. He wore gauges in his ears, the dark skin of his arms was covered in tattoos, and his tight, curly hair was shaped into a subtle pompadour. In short, Robbie, according to his name tag, was the single most memorable salesperson Jake had ever encountered.
He recovered quickly. “Hi. I need to outfit a small office. Desk, a couple of chairs.”
Robbie’s eyes flicked to Jake’s slim-cut suit, skinny tie, and patterned-silver belt buckle. “Seems to me you’re a modern guy in a traditional line of work. I think you might like this one.” He pointed to a sturdy steel desk with clean lines and ample drawer space. “It’s based on the midcentury steel-tanker models.”
“Sold,” Jake said. “Now point me to chairs.”
Robbie indicated a line of office chairs against the wall. When Jake tried to buy the first one in the line, Robbie insisted that he sit in each one to check for comfort, and after a few tests, Jake begrudgingly admitted it was smart to find his best fit.
“I’ll take that and two of those blue upholstered chairs for guest seating. And don’t bother; I’m not going to sit in those. They’ll be fine.”
As Robbie jotted down a few notes, a man with a big belly, a mean mouth, and a name tag identifying him as the floor manager moved behind them and pointedly cleared his throat.
Robbie’s eyes closed briefly, and then he said with artificial enthusiasm, “What about accessories? Credenzas? Plants? Art? We’ve got a fine line of coordinated decorative items for any office.”
The manager offered Robbie an unctuous smile. “Good boy.” He patted Robbie’s broad back before stalking way.
Robbie’s massive shoulders had tensed when the manager approached him, and they gradually eased as the manager’s pungent cologne started to dissipate. Although Jake had recently learned a few things about dealing with a difficult boss, he still didn’t feel bad enough to buy any accessories for his new workspace. “Nah. It’s just going to be me in there. I don’t need anything else.”
“Got it.” Robbie looked up from the notes he was making. “I don’t mean to overstep, but this isn’t the way most people usually outfit a new office.”
“It’s only short-term. I’m on loan from Black, Phelps, and Suarez in Chicago, consulting for a local company.”
“BPS?” Robbie looked surprised. “They do work this far down south?” At Jake’s equally surprised look, Robbie shrugged. “What, a black man can’t know about the biggest accounting firm in the state?”
Jake’s mouth dropped open, and he’d started to stammer an apology for his assumption when Robbie’s face split into a grin. “Nah, I’m messing with you. It’s cool. I wrote a paper on BPS for my senior project.” He pointed a thumb at his chest. “I majored in accounting at ISU.”
“And you’re selling furniture now?”
“Mostly delivering it. They prefer to keep me off the sales floor when possible.” Robbie scratched the back of his neck. “My extracurricular herbal activities have made certain types of employment unattainable for me unfortunately. The, uh, ones that require drug testing.”
Jake looked Robbie over. “You any good with computers?”
“I’m a fast typist who can spell.”
“How are you with people?”
“You’re still talking to me, aren’t you?”
“You clean when you come in to work?”
“Always,” Robbie said.
“How much do you bench?”
“When my shoulder’s healthy, 360.”
“Think you’d be content with an office job?” Jake asked. “It’s not accounting; it’s administrative work.”
“Would I have to deliver king-size mattresses to eighth-story apartments with broken elevators?”
“Uh, no,” Jake said.
“Then I’d be very content.”
“You okay babysitting a bunch of radio deejays?”
“Only if they’re more interesting than the people I work with here.”
Jake laughed. “All right. I’m game if you are.”
And that’s how Jake left Sheridan Furniture with a desk, three chairs, and one new, hulking radio-station receptionist.
Seventeen
Misery is an excellent sleep aid, Mabel had learned over the years. When her prom date her junior year stood her up because his ex-girlfriend took him back the morning of the dance, Mabel cried for two hours and then slept for fourteen. After an ugly breakup over breakfast in the college cafeteria, she shuffled like a zombie through her classes, then crawled to her dorm at three o’clock and didn’t leave bed until the alarm rang the following morning.
Monday night, in keeping with tradition, Mabel downed a truly enormous glass of wine for dinner and was in bed by six. She cocooned herself in her blankets, Tybalt at her head, and let the exhausting flow of emotions wash over her.
Tuesday… happened. She walked through it like a phantom, not connected to her body or immersed in the world around her. She and Dave announced their show changes, and she said words into the microphone when he stopped speaking and it was clearly her turn, but five minutes after their show ended, she couldn’t have repeated a single statement that she’d voiced on the air. She went straight home afterward and drifted around her house before heading to bed while the sun was still up and soaking her pillow with tears.
Wednesday morning was better. She was back in her body and in touch with her senses. Everything was sharp, heightened. She was devastated by her impending separation from Dave. She was pissed at Jake even though, deep down, she knew he’d been in an unwinnable situation. She was irritated with herself for her overly dramatic reaction, because hello, she and Jake weren’t even an official couple. They hadn’t made any promises. For God’s sake, she’d spent the bulk of their time together trying to resist his charm and good looks. And overlaying all that, of course, was blinding rage at Brandon. That emotion was virtuous and true.
She pulled into the station parking lot and sat in her car for a moment. She could do this. She’d keep it professional no matter what happened, starting today. She’d be professional in her demeanor and professional with her coworkers. Wait, what was Jake? Coworker? Supervisor? Corporate spy?
Whatever. Professional.
She arrived before Dave that morning—one of the benefits of an even more outrageously early bedtime than usual—and headed straight to the break room to start the coffee, staring dully at the drip drip drip of the liquid into the pot. After pouring two cups, she scooped up the mail in their slots and walked down the hall to the studio, stopping short when she entered the greenroom.
The new furniture had been delivered yesterday afternoon.
She sucked in a breath and forced herself to enter the room, gingerly placing the coffee mugs and bundle of mail onto the shiny new desk that she and Jake had flirted over the week before. She thumped the top once, wondering, as she had during their shopping trip, if he’d pictured the two of them testing how sturdy it actually was. The thought had thrilled her at the time, stealing her breath in the middle of the furniture store, but now it wrapped constricting bands around her chest until she had a hard time breathing.
Dave arrived as she was glumly staring at the new couch.
“We picked this out together,” she said in lieu of a greeting. “He liked that it didn’t have a million pillows.”
Dave picked up one of the coffee mugs and took a long, loud slurp before answering. “A couple of things: First, good morning. Second, you’ve known him for less than three months. I’ve seen people deal with the end of a thirty-year marriage better than you are. Third, he isn’t dead. He’s just an accountant.”
She wailed and flopped face-first onto the couch, the leather cushion muffling her voice. “Hello, he’s a hot accountant. And he’s the first guy I’ve liked in ages. Years, may
be. I’m entitled to a mourning period.”
“Well, get over it. We’ve got a show.” Dave snapped his fingers like a fussy kindergarten teacher, and she complied with a grumble.
They entered the booth and took their usual seats, Dave in front of the control board and her across from him, and started sorting through their mail. In addition to the usual ad copy and record-label promos, they’d both received a stationwide memo from Brandon that made bile creep up the back of her throat.
“We’re supposed to start advertising for Brick Babes today,” she said, reading. “And of course all applications go directly to Brandon.” She screwed up her face and made a full-throated retching sound.
“We still planning to be good soldiers?”
She briefly allowed herself the thought of throwing a good old-fashioned temper tantrum on the air. A good ol’ bout of cursing, shouting histrionics. Then she looked across the board at Dave, crossed her eyes, and saluted him. “Good soldier, reporting for duty.” No sense spending the rest of their time together wallowing in depression.
This resolve carried her through the next few hours on air. Dave made the announcements at the bottom of every hour, and Mabel was quick to jump in with her excitement about the Babes helping the station grow in an exciting direction and the joy of new opportunities and finally she’d get to sleep in and blah blah blah. Her stomach hurt the whole time, but she kept her energy up and a smile on her face. Her freshman-year audio prod professor had drilled it into her head that audiences could hear if a deejay was smiling, and that lesson had stuck with her for going on a decade now.
The studio’s voicemail had filled up the day before following their initial announcement, and the volume of calls didn’t let up on the second day. Twenty-four hours later and the callers were still incredulous, sad, or affronted on their behalf. Dave and Mabel took turns answering them off air and checking the voicemails.
Lies, lies, and more lies wallpapered the studio that morning, and a part of Mabel’s soul shriveled with each “No, no, it’s fine! I’m excited!” she delivered.