Just Down the Hall

by Alessandra Thomas

  Kiera: What do *you* have to gain by talking to me so long about this?

  * * *

  I sighed and shook my head. She had me there. I turned my attention to voting for guy #1 and guy #3 a few more times. My phone buzzed again.

  * * *

  Kiera: You could give any of these pasty-ass Philly bros a run for their money.

  * * *

  I sighed. She knew I had a thing for Liz. Of course. There was no point in trying to outsmart my sister, I supposed. It was just a matter of how long I could hold off her nosy badgering questions before admitting to her completely correct suspicions. I had a crush on Liz.

  * * *

  Me: Love you KiKi.

  Kiera: Love you back.

  * * *

  I knew I should have been thankful for my thesis meeting, and by the time it ended, I was. For an hour and a half, my mind had been busy with sensors and rare metals and circuitry and not with my new roommate. My advisor praised my satellite research concept as original and exciting, and as I walked out of her office, I was on top of the world. A few minutes later, though, my stomach rumbled, which made me think of dinner, which made me think of Liz, which then made me think about how I would not be having dinner with Liz.

  Maybe I could distract myself with cooking something nice, anyway. Maybe I’d offer her leftovers when she got home. I ran to the market and made it to checkout with half the ingredients for the meal I’d thought about making, but with a slice of cheesecake I barely remembered even seeing. I took the train to check out a running trail that was on the train line but far enough away from downtown to feel peaceful, even though I hardly ever ran outside. The whole time, I was refreshing the Philly Illustrated poll site, watching the votes roll in and putting in more of my own.

  Damn it all to hell if Philly didn’t really, really like underwear models. When my phone died a few minutes before 3:00 PM and I was still an hour away from home, my stomach dipped and rolled like I was on a ferry on choppy water. The poll closed at four. Liz would be meeting whatever guy the rest of Philly chose at seven.

  And I would have to figure out what the hell to do with myself between now and whenever she came home - if she came home. After all, she’d never said she wouldn’t sleep with the guy, and, well…he was a model.

  It was going to be a long night.

  Chapter 12

  Liz

  I slept with Jordan Jacobs. I slept with him, and he was gorgeous, and it was amazing. Then, six and a half days later, I did it again.

  And now I was going to work to see who the city of Philadelphia picked for me to date tonight. Or at least the few thousand people who actually read Philly Illustrated on a regular basis.

  And then, after the date, I was going to go home, and Jordan Jacobs, the guy who’d given me no less than three mind-blowing orgasms in seven days, would be waiting for me there. Because he was my roommate.

  Yeah. This was going to be totally fine. No, it was going to be fabulous, and I’d have a great time, and my articles about dating random Philly guys would be nothing short of revolutionary masterpieces filled with feminism and snark and wit.

  Because it had to be fine. I didn’t really have any other option.

  I hopped off the train and headed down the street toward the Philly Illustrated offices, wincing as I passed the spot where I’d posed for a photographer a couple days ago. The photo was supposed to attract eligible bachelors to me and serve as a thumbnail for every article I wrote. I thought it made me look like a manic cross between Mary Tyler Moore, a Kardashian sister, and June Cleaver.

  Plus those heels were not practical for any human to wear, ever. The balls of my feet had ached so badly after that shoot I thought they’d bruised.

  “Here’s our doll baby Philly Princess!” Monica crowed as I walked into the office. “Most eligible bachelorette in the city!” she crowed, coming up to me and brushing her fingertips along my jaw. My eyebrows pulled together and I managed a small smile. This was not characteristic of Monica.

  Maybe she’d gotten laid last night, too.

  “What’s got you so happy? Just excited it’s Friday?” I asked as I made my way over to my cube and set my bag down. I thought about changing from my flats into the heels I’d packed, but surveyed the office and decided there was no need. In fact, most of the women who worked at Philly Illustrated were dressed much more casually than I was.

  Honestly, I hated that I had to think about it at all. I was pretty sure Alphonso never had to think too hard about his outfit. I could just imagine him standing in front of his closet. Hmmm, would it be pants, or…pants? A button down, or a button down with a sweater? Flat-soled dress shoes or flat-soled casual dress shoes?

  I sighed. Maybe I should have tried my hand at being a full-time novelist instead of working in journalism. I’d heard that fiction writers wore yoga pants literally all the time. Seemed like a good enough reason to write pulp fiction for a living to me.

  “Well,” Monica said, motioning for Alphonso, who set a steaming hot cup of coffee on my desk, “You, my little star. You are what’s got me so happy. Or rather, my idea of a feature that you agreed to be the star of.”

  I blinked.

  “We are such a great team already,” she said, leaning in and waggling her eyebrows conspiratorially.

  I looked over to Alphonso, silently pleading for an explanation.

  “Last night, a local business called in asking if they could sponsor your first date. It comes with enough advertising money to make up like ten percent of Monica’s annual quota, so, you know. She’s pretty happy.”

  “Ten percent in one call! And this is only the beginning, baby! It’s all downhill from here. That is, if we play our cards right with this date.”

  “What do I have to do to play my cards right on my date?” Geez. I knew this was for work, but I deserved to at least treat it like something approaching normal.

  “Oh, you know. Just act like it’s a great place for a first date. Doesn’t take much to put a positive spin on something, and it’s important learning for every area of journalism, so…”

  Over Monica’s shoulder, Alphonso winced and then mouthed ‘sorry in advance’ to me.

  “Oh God,” I said in a moment of realization. What establishment is this that so badly wanted to sponsor my date tonight?

  “Uncle Phil’s Philly Phun Zone!” Monica crowed, this time with an obviously fake smile that only attempted to hid her worry. After a couple seconds of dead silence from me and Alphonso, she rolled her eyes, still managing to keep that smile. “Come on, Lizzie. It’ll be fun! With a ‘P-H!’”

  “Liz,” I said, my heart sinking at the unbidden memory that flooded my mind - Jordan moaning ‘Lizzie’ in my ear as his fingers traveled to the one place I desperately wanted them.

  “…I mean, there is a salad bar, I think, even if there’s no alcohol—we wouldn’t really want you to get very drunk on one of these dates anyway, would we—and skee-ball! Who doesn’t like skee-ball!” She finished her sentence with a flourish, like she just announced that I’d won a Grammy or something.

  I sighed resignedly. She was right. There were worse things than skee-ball. And even though I’d never imagined my first byline being sponsored by Uncle Phil’s Philly Phun Zone, I did have a job. I was getting paid to write words about the city I lived in.

  And I could always have a drink once I got home.

  “Alright,” I said, sliding into my desk chair and doing a little spin. “Who’s the lucky bachelor?”

  “Well, let’s take a look at how voting’s going,” Alphonso said, striding over to his desktop. Monica and I followed.

  * * *

  In the end, the voting between the three guys was a lot closer than I ever anticipated it being. Guy #1, Mr. Accountant with thinning hair, got 183 votes. #2, Underwear Model Man, got 231. And #3, the Lumberjack, got…72? Really?

  “I just think it’s weird that #3 didn’t get that many votes. Right? Clearly, he was way more
suited to me than #1,” I said to Monica over a 4:00 cup of coffee. I worried at my thumbnail with my teeth. I was supposed to meet #2 at Uncle Phil’s in just under 3 hours, and my stomach had started to do flips. Coffee probably wasn’t the best decision at this juncture, but I needed to find some energy to put on a smiley face tonight. Caffeine was one of my best bets for achieving that.

  “Are you nervous? You look nervous. Don’t be nervous,” Monica muttered, her eyes flicking up at me over the rim of her mug.

  “The more you say ‘nervous,’ the more nervous I get,” I grumbled.

  “Listen, just because he’s like a human sculpture of hotness doesn’t mean you have to stress,” she said, waving her stir stick at me vaguely. “What you do have to do is write an article about the date that’s smart and funny and entertaining.”

  “And really positive about Phil’s Philly Phun Zone,” Alphonso interjected from his cube.

  “Anything else?” I asked. “Maybe…honest? Feminist? Introspective?”

  “Uh…sure,” Monica said absently. “Just…try to have fun. Okay?”

  * * *

  After a quick exploration of the Uncle Phil’s Philly Phun Zone website, I realized my outfit was seriously not going to fly for a date there. I’d tucked a silk tank, some makeup, and a curling iron into my bag, assuming we’d be going to a restaurant or bar or some other normal, adult first date. These high heels were just not going to cut it for an evening of on-my-feet arcade-playing, and, obviously, my cross-trainers wouldn’t be okay for a first date. Then there was the whole matter of trying to drive a go-kart or play laser tag in a pencil skirt.

  Monica was about my height, but at least a couple sizes larger than me. After a quick assessment of her frame, I asked, “Do you happen to have any leggings lying around here? And maybe a pair of flats? These heels are killing me,” I said, wincing as I showed her. “I’m afraid this isn’t going to work for the Phun Zone.”

  Monica twisted her lips, assessing me. “I have leggings, but they’d just sag off that pert little ass of yours. And we can’t have you looking like a mess on your first date. Why don’t you go home and change?”

  I turned my phone’s screen on and flipped it toward her. “Date’s in like an hour and a half. No way I’ll get back home, get ready, and get to the date in time.”

  “And I don’t suppose you want to just have him pick you up?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Do I look like I want to set myself up for sexual assault? Besides, Deanna’s going to tag along with me.” The photography intern, two years out of college and just returned from a backpacking trip in Europe, had been assigned to photograph each of my date experiences. “I don’t want to have to drag her back to my place.”

  Monica sighed, then pulled open her desk drawer and fumbled with some keys at a metal box inside it. She pulled out a Philly Mag American Express card and tossed it to me. I almost tripped over my own heels trying to catch it. “Get some cute jeans and a pair of flats. Box of band-aids, too, for your heels.” I smiled at the sweetness of Monica’s concern. She could be a crazy bitch sometimes, yeah, but I could tell she cared about me even after the sole week I’d been working there. “No more than $150. Got it?”

  I quick-stepped over to her and gave her a one-armed squeeze around the shoulders, pressing my cheek to hers. I giggled at her squeak of surprise. “Thank you, Monica. You’re the greatest.”

  “Tell any of the other staff writers this happened, and you’re toast. Got it?”

  “Never bought me any jeans,” Alphonso grumbled.

  “Shut it. I never bought her any vodka.”

  My smile turned into a full grin as I dashed out of the office. I still kind of hated the assignment, but the people here weren’t turning out to be so bad.

  An hour later, I was walking out of H&M, ridiculously pleased with the way my new jeans hugged my butt and skimmed past my knees into a perfect straight silhouette. I wondered if emergency clothes shopping was good luck or something, or maybe jean matchmaking just happened like magic when you were shopping with someone else’s credit card.

  Either way, with my new jeans, adorable turquoise flats, and swingy new earrings to match, I looked good - really good. Just the right mix of cute and flirty with the option of sexy if I decided to turn it on.

  I swung by the office to meet Deanna, dropping my work clothes and the credit card off while I was there. After doing a little spin and wiggle to show off my outfit at Monica’s request, I was out the door.

  Deanna spent the entire train ride to the outskirts of Philly taking pictures of weird shit like a wad of gum on the underside of a passenger seat, or the scuff marks along the sliding doors. Since she was half-lying on the petri dish of a floor to line up her shots, I pretended not to know her and spent the time gazing out the window, trying to ignore the twisting in my stomach.

  The truth was that it had been a very long time since I’d gone on a real first date. Josh had taken me out on one, almost two years ago now, but only after we had made out at a frat party, shortly after which my friend had to help me get home after I puked on the front lawn. A certain amount of first-date mystique was lost when a guy had had already felt you up in a drunken stupor, not to mention watched you puke up Applebee’s mozzarella sticks and vodka.

  My experiences with other guys in college weren’t real grown-up dates - more like hanging out with guys I’d known for a while and, a couple times, falling into bed with them.

  Then again, it wasn’t like any of my college experiences had worked out amazingly well. Maybe I should keep an open mind about Mr. Model. If I knew nothing else about him, at least I knew he had nice abs.

  I glanced at his profile on my phone one more time. Brad. My nose wrinkled when I saw the smirk on his face paired with his overly confident words. I could say for sure that, besides the abs, this guy had an enormous ego.

  The packet we’d received from Uncle Phil’s Philly Phun Zone instructed me to meet at the front desk at exactly 7:00. Deanna and I got there at 6:55, after a minor freak-out when a big whooping noise and red flashing scared the crap out of us as we walked in. “Just the Alarm of Awesome,” a squeaky-voiced skinny teen boy said when we arrived at the desk. Deanna and I shared a rare moment of connection as she rolled her eyes at the ridiculousness of this whole thing and I shrugged with an apologetic smile. I strongly suggested that she use the restroom before the date began so she wouldn’t miss a single second of this special, special evening, and she nodded, seeming relieved.

  I was nervous, if I was being honest with myself. Plenty of people told me I was pretty, and I believed them, knowing it was true in a girl-next-door sort of way. My hair, though a dull dirty blond, shone after a little product and a rigorous ironing, and I’d gotten particularly good at making my eyes look wide and sparkly with the right makeup. I had a cute butt, nice calves, and a respectable bra size. But this guy - Brad - he was an actual model. What if the Philly Illustrated readers had picked him for me just to see what would happen when a ten went out with a seven? Or was ‘seven’ even too generous for me? Dating an underwear model was one thing - dating one while all of Philly watched was another.

  Just as I was considering running and hiding in the bathroom, the track lights around the door started racing and flashing right as the big, whooping alarm went off again. Brad strolled in through the flashing lights like it was something he did every freaking day, and only barely glanced up at the noise. I couldn’t help but think that he was imagining himself on a runway, with a relaxed and confident smile and his smooth stride.

  When he reached me, he extended a hand like the knights did for princesses in fairy tales, and I slid my fingers into his grip, half expecting him to bring my hand to his lips.

  “You must be Elizabeth,” he said with a self-congratulatory smirk, like he should be given a prize for remembering my name. I opened my mouth to tell him it was just “Liz,” but right before I did, a memory of the night before flashed through my mind - Jordan’s
lips against my skin, breath steaming hot behind the shell of my ear, groaning, “Liz.”

  Suddenly, the idea of any other guy calling me that in any sort of romantic context made my skin crawl. So, I forced a smile, squeezed his hand, and said, “And you must be Brad.”

  “The one and only,” he replied with a bleach-white grin. He stepped back and made a show out of looking me up and down and wolf whistling, which was super misogynistic but also made me feel awesome. But when his gaze reached the floor, his face unmistakably fell. He recovered quickly, looking back up into my eyes, but I couldn’t stop myself from asking him.

  “Is something wrong? With…the floor?”

  “No, it’s…nothing. I…um…I was just worried I’d forgotten my wallet. But it’s there,” he said, patting his back pocket.

  “Well,” a high-pitched voice squeaked from behind the counter, “it wouldn’t have been a problem anyway. Uncle Phil’s Philly Phun Zone is so pleased to be sponsoring your first ‘Liz Dates Philly’ date! Everything’s on the house for you two lovebirds tonight!”

  We both turned to see a woman who couldn’t have been more than five feet tall and ninety pounds soaking wet wearing a Phun Zone Polo and huge diamond earrings grinning at us. “My name’s Jen, and I’m the manager. Welcome to the Phun Zone! I can’t wait for Philly to hear all about what a great time you had with us. Let’s get you guys started!”

  Seriously, if her manic smile had been taken down a notch it would have been contagious, but this was just scary. I had a feeling that if we didn’t have enough Phun at the Phun Zone, she’d start chasing us around the pinball machines with a skee-ball, trying to bludgeon us.

  I shot a glance at Deanna, who had returned with her camera halfheartedly gripped in one hand.

  Jen the Phun Zone Manager started walking backwards through the huge open room full of flashing, screaming machines, giving us what she called “the grand tour.” A few dead-eyed teenagers were staring at the screens, robotically moving joysticks or tapping buttons. A couple girls who couldn’t have been older than freshmen or sophomores in high school frantically stepped across the stairs on a dancing game, looking over a group of boys crowded around a different game ten feet away every few seconds and giggling their heads off.