Get over it, Janalyn. As if I hadn’t punished myself plenty with repetitive recriminations, I pinched my thigh through durable dress slacks of heavy-gauge cotton and man-made elastane, which was not satisfying at all, but it beat the hell out of picking my skin until it bled or eating my way into a hot fudge sundae coma. No matter how many times I told myself that I was better off without the lying would-be polygamist, I couldn’t get over Faith. I found it hard to forget and impossible to forgive. There were days when I resorted to mean thoughts, acting like an errant child calling her bad names. But digressions from maturity did nothing to placate my battered soul. Melodrama soon replaced Melody as my middle name, when I wasn’t mentally shut down from maintaining my stony façade.
I was determined never again to open myself up the way I did with Faith, stubbornly refusing myself too much happiness. If I was going to bleed, it would be the result of my own hands, not someone I trusted implicitly. Yes, I’d become bitter, no fun at all, but at least I was safe. One afternoon, I had gone shopping with my mother and nearly bit her head off just because she’d dared turn on the radio in her own car. The love songs on every channel my mother flipped to made me want to bolt out of the car in the middle of the highway.
Poor Mom. Faith had hurt her little girl. It didn’t matter that I was all grown up; she had never been able to stand me getting even a small “booboo,” as she called every scratch and scrape I’d ever had. Emotional turmoil put her over a freaking cliff. That day in the car, she had told me, “You’re only as happy as your most miserable child; remember that, Janalyn.”
“Thanks, Mom. I needed a hefty portion of guilt with my sorrow today.” I immediately regretted my words.
“That’s not what I meant. I just want you to be happy.”
I patted her right hand that had drifted off the wheel and onto the car seat. “It’s okay, Mom, I know.” But by the time we had parked the car as far away from the nearest entrance as possible, I had forgotten why we had ventured to the mall in the first place, and I was already stressing over the crowds. Material goods were the last things on earth that could lift my spirits. I had not owned anything like that since Faith’s necklace gift to me and the ring I had bought to propose to her. When I had given Faith back the diamond necklace and took a substantial loss on selling the engagement ring, my only thought had been good riddance. I didn’t want anything more from Faith, even though that had left me still without a home.
Lucky for me, Debs had a two-bedroom apartment, a throwback from her rent-sharing days, but I really couldn’t impose for too long. After a couple of months, despite Debs insisting she loved my company, I went back to my childhood home, but quickly found my old bedroom, not to mention trying to appear upbeat so as not to upset my parents, stifling beyond belief. Mom meant well, but she was overbearing, and her incessant worrying and fussing over me drove me crazy. I soon needed my own space.
The last time I had set eyes on Faith was at the closing of our house. I can’t remember much from that day, except how hard it was not to cry in an airless boardroom surrounded by strangers—all of them—including Faith. I didn’t even reach out to her when she wiped away a tear. If her heart was broken nearly half as badly as mine, then good—she deserved it. I used my half of the money, not much, since we had had a huge mortgage, to finally rent my own place in the city. Aside from personal effects, my computer, and Grandma’s silver, I took very little with me, avoiding reminders, and bought brand-new furnishings for my new life.
I continued to beat myself up for being blind, but I still was desperately in love with Faith. I hated like hell to think that I was. Only a complete moron would have any warm feelings after all that.
Even five years later, I simply could not stop the endless loop, the broken record, call it what you will, of self-destructive thoughts and behaviors once they’d started. My thoughts were like a chronic illness without hope of a cure.
At least the behaviors lessened as the years wore on. There was a time, closer to the beginning, when I had burned the candle at both ends, working like a lunatic in order to forget. Back then, I had cried as many gallons as the New York waterworks. Such a blubbering mess was not a pretty sight.
Debs never gave up on trying to snap me back to life; she was my saving grace. As an incentive to stay engaged with the world, she found a special two-for-one deal, the first month free, on an exclusive gym with membership by invitation only. We split the savings and upgraded from the YMCA to the Buttkiss Sport Spa, Midtown Manhattan’s best-kept secret and with the silliest name too. Each night, we exercised long and hard, which Debs claimed was to get our money’s worth, but I knew she was working hard to keep me too busy for the luxury of a good cry. She’d been right to push: hard physical and mental workouts helped pulverize the pain. I was only okay as long as I didn’t stop, because the moment I took a breather, I was overwhelmed with sadness. And despite her efforts, I didn’t sleep well and often woke up troubled, disoriented from vivid images; it was impossible at first to decipher whether or not they were real. Debs and I grew closer still. We’d both seen each other through horrible breakups now, and we knew how to get each other through. It baffled me to no end that Debs was still single, frankly. In my mind she was the perfect mate, and not just for her beauty alone. Sure, she was gorgeous, but she was also smart, funny and faithful to a fault. A winning combination.
Our anniversary of joining Buttkiss fell on a Friday. We planned to mark the anniversary of our joining the club with a marathon workout, followed by splurging on whatever treats we desired afterwards. Debs and I were all set to leave work on time and start our weekend off with endurance exercises, followed by a swim, if we had spare energy. I emptied out my briefcase, except for a bottle of water and bran bar, when Debs peered over the partition separating our desks.
“Are you ready for the workout of your life?” Debs’s eagerness was contagious. Better to steer clear if you didn’t want to get carried away. She could turn the dullest day into a party, while still managing to complete what needed to get done.
“You bet. You?”
“Absolutely. Just hitting the little girl’s room, and we’re off.”
I bid farewell to co-workers on the way to meet Debs by the elevator. It was easy to leave, given who we worked for and what the company’s principles were. Scott Spencer would have to do without their most dedicated employees for one weekend.
“My bag feels awfully light without the contents of a file cabinet in it. Why, then, am I not plagued with guilt?” I asked.
“Stop it. Let’s do this without another thought.”
We linked arms and headed out of the skyscraper, onto the busy streets of Manhattan, chatting the whole way.
“You really should stop printing and schlepping every piece of paper. It’s why we have computers with tons of storage, you know,” Debs said.
“Old habits.”
The way into Buttkiss was on the side of a building that had a row of storefronts—it could easily be a service entrance, as it was unmarked and not very well lit. We had to walk down steep steps and, once inside, back up more stairs to the reception desk. It looked like a real dive from the outside.
The reception desk was manned, but we still had to swipe our photo-ID cards. The receptionist, Mandy, was busy texting, tweeting, or whatever she did at check-in and barely glanced at the screen when we swiped our cards. We walked into the locker room to the familiar scent of white linen from the room deodorizers that regularly sprayed chemicals into the air. Quickly, we changed into workout gear.
Debs was the hottest member at Buttkiss, in her black Spandex pants and her matching top, anklets and trainers, and received the most looks. I was glad to let her take the spotlight. I was there to pump iron and do some cardio, not make a fashion statement.
“Where do you want to start the warm-up?” she asked.
; “Bikes. We started on treadmills last time and really should mix it up.”
“You’re the boss.”
“Right this way,” I said. “We could take a spinning class.”
“Nah, not tonight. Let’s go it on our own, and the first one to poop out buys the hot fudge sundaes.”
“Those are mighty high stakes.” I grinned. “You’re on.”
“What is this I hear about hot fudge?” A smooth deep baritone that reminded me of a young James Earl Jones caught our attention.
“Hey Jase.” I bumped knuckles with Jason Mann. He practically owned the place. I wouldn’t hesitate to bet that he was a silent partner. Jase’s toned bulk spoke volumes about how many hours he invested weekly to achieve his “muscle man of the year award” look. Most folks wouldn’t want to meet him in a dark alley, but I knew him as this gentle giant with a huge smile and a heart to match. I often found Debs’s gaze glued to his gluteus maximus.
“Sup?” he said.
“It’s our anniversary of becoming members of this joint,” I said.
“Cool. You get to work out extra hard then.”
“Hey, Jase, looking good,” Debs said, her expression all dreamy and looking very focused on the object of her desire.
“Not as good as you,” he replied. I literally had to pull Debs away, or we’d never get past check-in. Good thing she regrouped effortlessly.
“We’ll do ten minutes on the bike for legs and head to rowing for upper body. Let’s circuit,” she said, her head back in the game.
“Sure thing.”
The workout was grueling. Debs went off to take a quick break while I carried on. Jason joined me for some squats with free weights—they didn’t really make dumbbells heavy enough for him, but he humored me by grunting. His wide grin gave him away. I punched his arm and nearly broke my knuckles.
“I think my friend has her eye on you,” I said between lunges.
“Debs is hot, no doubt about that, but she’s not my type.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Debs is everyone’s type.”
Jason cocked his head toward the bench press to look at a white guy I had seen around a lot lately. The pale Adonis had streaked blond hair, blue eyes and a baby face that must have inspired utter devotion from the women in his family. With a photogenic physique not in need of fancy touch-up programs, he was a fine specimen of the human male. I may be a true lesbian, but I could still appreciate prime humans at their peak, and gender didn’t enter into the equation. This guy was super-duper fit but not bulky like my friend Jason.
The light bulb went off in my head. How could I have been so blind? I looked up into Jason Mann’s beautiful dark-skinned face and stood there mute before I could speak.
“He’s your type? You shitting me?”
“No shit.”
“He’s cute, I’ll give him that. Is he gay?”
“I hope so. Yeah, he’s into me, I got vibes.”
How the hell hadn’t I known Jase was gay? I made a mental note to have my gaydar checked at the next inspection. Maybe I had a wire loose or something.
When Debs came back, she turned a bright shade of pink the closer she got to me and Jason. I thought she’d swoon from the effects of his smile. Lucky for them both, Jason was summoned to spot the blond Adonis on the weights and left, hiding his eagerness to answer the man’s beck and call.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” I said after Jason was out of earshot.
Debs looked away the moment I peered into her eyes. “You like him,” I remarked.
“I do not!”
“She who protests too much—”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I think he’s taken.” Debs pouted; her voice even sounded deflated. “Believe me, I tried, but he, well, he wasn’t interested.” I wished I could whisk her hurt away. She was such a dear friend.
Actually, maybe I could help. “Do you still want to swim?”
“Nah, I think we’ve done more than enough, but I will if you want to.”
“I agree, we’re more than done here. Let’s go back into the stairwell, bring a mat.”
As soon as we were alone and sitting on the mats, ready for the cool down stretches, I turned to face her. “About Jase. Can I let you in on a little secret?”
“He’s totally and completely in love with me too?” Debs asked, ever hopeful.
“Sorry, babe, but you are definitely not his type. He prefers pretty boys, preferably blonde and buff.”
Debs looked as if every sweet dream she’d ever had turned sour. “Sorry,” I said.
“Not your fault. I just can’t believe it. Why are the good ones always taken or gay?”
“I don’t have a clue.”
“It’s so sad that he feels he has to keep his sexual orientation so well hidden. How did you find out?” she asked. She was already onto curious questions, moving on past her heartbreak. I had to applaud her resilience.
“He told me.”
“Why would he do that?”
“I may not flaunt it, but I sure as hell don’t keep my preferences a secret. Jase never uttered a disparaging word or went all quiet like some people do whenever the topic of homosexuality arises. When you’re part of a minority, Debs, you remember this sort of thing and you file it away in your head for later. While things have improved in general, some folks still act as if it rips their comfort zone to shreds.”
“It’s a shame. I don’t think anyone should have to hide. I’m proud of you that you don’t.”
“I know.”
“You’re my favorite lesbian.”
“Oh, so now you’re collecting us?”
“No, silly. I still love Ellen and Melissa, but I love you most of all.”
“Thanks.”
We did our cool down reps effortlessly. I felt invigorated, like I could conquer the world.
“Neither of us pooped out first, so who buys the decadent dessert?” she asked.
“I say we skip it. I feel too good to ruin it with a sugar hangover tomorrow.”
“Me too. Let’s share a smoothie at the juice bar after showers instead.”
“Deal.”
We rarely missed a workout.
While it took a long time to function again normally, I had eventually become the model employee. I arrived early, worked late, hardly ate, skipped breaks, and threw myself into more projects than a sane person could handle on her best day. In other words, I was all work and no play. The extra cash from a hefty bonus was the result. Money doesn’t guarantee happiness, it doesn’t erase painful experiences, and it doesn’t keep you company at night, but it helps with the bills. I was able to afford a slightly larger apartment in a better part of the city.
Patrick came by again. “Do you by any chance have the monthly report yet?”
“Yes, it’s right here. I just need to look it over once more, and it’s yours.”
“No e-mail, please. I prefer the printed form.”
“You got it.” Patrick didn’t trust computers, not having grown up with them. Once on paper, as opposed to reading on-screen, I viewed my latest report with fresh eyes.
The most surprising result of my research was the finding that employees who perceived that their company, and in particular their immediate supervisors, actually cared about their health took far less sick days, regardless of whether or not they participated in the “Go Health, Reap the Wealth” program. Most people didn’t want or need to be told to go on a diet, to exercise, and to give up smoking. I was like most people. Tell me what to do, and I was more likely to do the opposite; I was affected more by personal motivation than outside influence. At least we instructed CEOs to allow for extra time, supplies, information, and incentives to entice employees to adopt better habits.
Good
thing I hadn’t handed my report to Patrick earlier. After a morning spent in personal musings of the negative kind, some of the wording in my discussions and conclusions looked like they were written by a bitter woman. I toned it down considerably, vying for more upbeat descriptions where improvements were warranted, and then printed out the final version. Quite pleased with my revision, I dropped a copy on Patrick’s desk. Then I scribbled a note to Debs on a paper airplane and watched while it flew over the center divider. I heard her chuckle and smiled, despite myself.
Debs wheeled her ergonomic chair backward to peek into my cubicle while aiming my paper airplane at the center of my forehead.
I held my hands up in surrender. “Hold on there. Just wondering if you’re gymming tonight.”
“Of course, you?”
“Count me in.”
Debs turned swiftly to look into the distance behind her.
“Pssssssst, Jana! Don’t look now, but here comes double trouble.”
I closed Wikipedia faster than a blink of an eye, but opening a Word document was a different story. I tapped on the table next to my mouse in a restless, rhythmic motion, but then had to stretch up to peer over the partition and across the office, unable not to look. Debs waved me back down.
“There’s some talk about restructuring. I have no idea what that’s about. Heads down, maybe they’ll torment someone else,” she hissed.
I plunked down into my chair with more of a thump than intended. At least Scott Spencer, our fine founder, was a total mensch in every sense of the word. He possessed integrity and honor, measuring well above mere mortals, and was part of the reason Debs and I lasted as his employees twenty-three years and counting. But the sound of Marcus, our relentless acting chief, coming straight for my head with his snooty assistant, Cynthia, made my heart speed up with stress. After a whole song and dance, my computer did me the honors and finally reopened my latest file. It was pristine, but I could always find something to tweak.
Across the Pond Page 7