The doorbell dings for the third time as I pad through the living room in bare feet, still wearing the rumpled dress I came home in last night. Simon is going crazy by this point—the doorbell sends him into a leaping, circling frenzy—and meanwhile my head is throbbing, and my phone is in my hand. I click the Facebook icon as I stretch up on my toes to see through the crescent-shaped window on the upper part of my front door.
As expected, my view is of the top of Carrie’s head. The deadbolt isn’t locked, so I turn the lock in the doorknob and pull the door open. Carrie pushes through it immediately, talking a blue streak before I have a chance to say a word.
“Have you seen it yet? Oh my God, Jen, I’ve tried to call you like a million times. Please, please, please, God, tell me you’ve taken it down.” She walks up behind me as I push the door closed and looks over my shoulder at my phone’s screen. I clutch it tighter, afraid she’s about to rip it out of my hand.
“You’re freaking me out,” I say, my hands shaking as I glance down my Facebook wall. I have several new notifications, so I click the icon to view them and walk toward the couch as Carrie drops her purse onto the floor and trails me impatiently. All the notifications are from people who’ve commented on a status or posted on my wall, and the people are totally random—my old roommate, a past client, a cousin in Virginia, a planner from the city engineer’s office, a friend from my Zumba class, a guy I went to high school with, my coworker Quinn. I click my former roommate’s wall post, and it reads, OMG!! You OK????? Next I click Quinn’s post. You are so screwed.
“Why?” I exclaim. “Why am I screwed?” I look at Carrie, panic taking over my confusion. “What’s going on?”
She’s been poised to grab the phone from me, and finally she does, plucking it from my hands and tapping frantically at the screen. I watch as she pulls up my profile page, scrolls down to my current status, and then thrusts the phone back in front of my face. “Read it,” she says. “And then delete it before anybody else sees it!”
Feeling a new round of nausea coming on, I follow her orders and read, the words blurring together as my life as I know it passes before my eyes. My Facebook status, updated at 1:23 a.m., reads: OMG worst day ever!!! First my boss sucks face wit my biggest client, who she’s stealing from me, btw. And now jeremy tels me he’s screwing some chick at work and wedding. Is. Off. FML… So far it has twelve comments, and as I watch a new one appears, this one from an architect I worked with on a project last year.
Letting out a strangled yelp, I fumble to figure out how to delete the status as a new round of vomit rises up in my throat. I press one hand to my mouth and jump up from the sofa, the phone clattering to the floor. As Carrie clamors for it, I bang my shin on the coffee table and rush for the half bath in the hall between the living room and kitchen. I don’t make it.
The remaining contents of my stomach land on the antique rug that lines the hardwood floor of my hallway. Afterward I sink down onto it, tears sliding from my eyes and mingling with the mess on the floor. I cough and sob at the same time, and then I hear Carrie get up from the sofa. Simon is circling the mess and staring at me with huge, woeful eyes.
“Deleted it,” Carrie says in a breathless rush, her footsteps hastening toward me. “Oh. God. Oh, honey,” she says. “Here.” She extends a hand to me and pulls me up from my heap on the floor. “Let me get—”
“No!” I yell, the realization of what she’s doing yanking me out of my slobbery stupor. She’s already done so much. I can’t let her clean up after me again. Her eyes are wide, and I stammer, “I’m sorry. You’re not… I’ll clean this up. God, thank you so much for—”
I put my fist to my mouth and close my eyes for half a second. “Thank you,” I say again. Then I step over the pile of puke and flee to the kitchen to gather cleaning supplies.
Life goes on, indeed.
* * *
Two hours later I’ve managed to shower, pull on a T-shirt and yoga pants, eat a slice of dry toast, and sip tentatively at a mug of coffee. Between these activities I’ve spent the rest of the time on damage control. Carrie stayed for about half an hour after I finished cleaning up, insisting on helping despite my mortified protests. As the second in command at a PR firm, Carrie’s job is damage control, and without her here I’m not sure I could have held on to what was left of my sanity, much less my dignity. Eventually, though, she had to leave for work.
As for me, I’m not sure how much longer I’ll have a job. I doubt Candace saw my status—we’re not Facebook friends—but she’s sure to hear about it and might have already. At any rate, so far I’ve put off calling the office. It’s about 9:30, roughly an hour past my usual arrival time. I plop down heavily at my kitchen table and stare at my phone, feeling as if I’ve been trampled by a bull in Pamplona or thrown off the back of a moving vehicle. My head is still throbbing despite the Advil, and my stomach feels like it’s challenging me to a duel.
After debating over and over in my head and imagining a range of scenarios each worse than the last, I hold my breath and dial the office number. Jeremy will be here any minute, and I don’t want Candace to have my unexcused absence as a ready reason to fire me. Jeremy. The mere thought of his name makes me feel like I could start vomiting all over again.
“Greenlee Designs. How can we help you?” Carson Cullers, our office manager, interrupts my anguish in a voice that seems brighter than usual this morning. I’ve always suspected that Carson doesn’t like me, so I’m sure my incriminating Facebook status is the reason for her good mood.
“Hi Carson, it’s Jen,” I say, my voice dull by comparison. “Is Candace in yet?”
“Jen!” She squeaks my name so loud my throbbing head gives an extra pulse. Then her tone turns all low and conspiratorial. “No, she hasn’t shown up yet. You can try her cell.”
I almost laugh at the thought of my name showing up on Candace’s phone screen this morning. “No thanks,” I say. “Do you mind sticking a note on her desk that I called you and that I don’t feel well today?” Even though I’m sure it’s pointless, I want a record of the fact that I did call in sick.
“Sure thing, sweetie,” she says, and I pull the phone from my ear and stare at it in surprise. Carson has never used the word “sweetie” to address me. She’s efficient and brisk and generally reserved. I’m not sure what to make of it.
“Um, thanks,” I say. “I’ll be there tomorrow,” I add for good measure.
“Sure, okay,” she replies, and I can hear another line ringing in the background. “Gotta run, sweetie. Hope you feel better.”
My brow furrows as she hangs up, and, thinking our conversation didn’t match any of the scenarios I’d envisioned, I shake my head and heave a giant sigh. I have bigger issues to deal with right now. I move into the living room, flip open the laptop that’s resting on a small desk in the corner by the front window, and fire it up. For some reason, I think a bigger screen might offer a broader perspective on the scope of my social media fail.
While the computer warms up, I peek through the front blinds to see if Jeremy’s car has made an appearance yet out front. My house is a compact foursquare I bought with my dad’s co-signature and shared with a roommate for the first two years I owned it. Once I began building a big enough clientele to earn a decent salary, I found I could cover the mortgage without help, so when my roommate Murphy decided to move in with her boyfriend, I didn’t advertise for another roommate. I’d been expecting Jeremy to move in soon since the lease on his condo is up in July, and I’d finally eked a long-term commitment out of him, but now I guess I understand why he wouldn’t give up his bachelor pad.
My stomach gives another sick lurch.
I crane my neck and peek as far as I can through my blinds and down the street, which is quiet on this weekday morning. My neighborhood is urban and settled, with mature trees lining the sidewalks and a diverse cast of characters occupying the neat rows of Craftsman bungalows, foursquares, and Tudor revival cottages. I don’t have
a covered portico or even much of a driveway, so when Jeremy or anyone else comes over, parking is a fend-for-yourself situation. Right now the street space in front of my house is empty.
I plop down in my molded-plastic, Eames knock-off desk chair and steel myself for the onslaught. Even though Carrie pulled down my post, my wall keeps getting new comments asking if I’m okay, what happened, etc. Some of the comments are from friends, but most are from Facebook “friends” who are more interested in the juiciness of the gossip than in my well-being. Per Carrie’s instructions, I’m answering the comments one by one in private messages and hiding the wall posts from my public feed.
I had no idea I even had this many onlookers to my life. Amazing how people come out of the woodwork when there’s something to gawk at.
I’ve just answered a question posted by my second cousin, Elissa, who lives in Ohio, when the sound of a car door slamming out front makes me jump. Rapid footsteps pound up my porch steps, and my doorbell rings for the fourth time this morning. Simon’s in the backyard, probably chasing squirrels, so he can’t do his customary doorbell dance. But I hear him barking by the back fence.
I quickly minimize my screen and unlock the door with a strange mix of dread, fury, indignation, and residual tequila churning in my stomach. I don’t say anything as I pull the door wide enough to let Jeremy in, and I’m surprised, as I close the door behind him, that he doesn’t lash out at me immediately. I turn to find him already sitting on the sofa, his head of thick, dark curls in his hands.
Feeling shaky, I choose not to sit on the sofa beside him, instead sinking into one of a pair of white Ikea club chairs that flank my dark wood coffee table.
I wait him out, and finally Jeremy lifts his head, pinching the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb and squeezing his eyes shut, something he does when he’s upset. “What the hell was that, Jenny?” he asks in a quiet voice. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done to me at work?”
I don’t say anything, and he continues. “If you wanted to get me back, congratulations.”
My eyes have narrowed into slits. When it’s apparent that he’s finished and waiting on me to speak, I answer with a false composure that almost rivals his. In seven years of dating, breaking up, and dating again, the two of us haven’t had many real fights. Passive-aggressiveness has always been more our thing. “Oh, yeah,” I say. “Congratulations to me. My fiancé announces to me and several of my closest friends that he’s in love with another woman, and I get to ruin my career over it. It’s my lucky day.”
The timbre of my voice escalates on the last sentence, destroying our manufactured calm.
“You’re blaming this on me?” he bellows. “I did not have a damn thing to do with that Facebook situation…fuck-up…whatever you want to call it. What on earth were you thinking?”
I stare at him, shaking my head. “Thinking? I wasn’t thinking, Jeremy. I was drunk. Very, very drunk.” I stand up suddenly and begin pacing the room, my head swooning at the sudden rush of blood. I glance over at him. “Did you even read the first part of my status? Did you see that I caught Candace making out with Emory Brewster during my presentation appointment? I tried to reach you all night to tell you about it—I left you like ten messages. Little did I know that you were too busy boning your soul mate to bother with my little problems.”
The pent-up frustrations of years of being disappointed by this man come streaming out of my eyes and down my cheeks. I hate that I’m crying in front him, but I know it can’t be helped. It’s probably why I’ve been dragging my feet on shopping for a wedding dress. I think I’ve known all along our wedding wasn’t going to happen.
At that, a picture of my mother flashes into my head. My mother, who’s been so excited to finally have a real role in wedding planning. She’s married off all four of my brothers, standing patiently aside and watching the mothers of the brides have all the fun while she scrounges together the most impressive rehearsal dinners she can afford on my parents’ joint real estate agency income. The thought squeezes my heart in a whole new wave of torment. My mom not only inspired my love of houses, she’s also the source of all of my creative and artistic genes. My dad has a head for business, a dry humor, and the drawing skills of a second grader with ADHD.
The reminder of his indiscretions softens Jeremy’s temper somewhat. “I wasn’t boning my—” He stops, pinches his nose again, and looks away from me, toward the dining room. “I am sorry I dumped that on you when you’d already had a bad day. I should have picked my moment better.”
I give him an exasperated look and swipe at my cheeks with the back of my hand. “There’s not a good moment for that, Jerm,” I spit out. “Seven years we’ve been together. Seven years I’ve wasted on somebody who’s scared to death of commitment and who lies to me and says he’s ‘working late’ when really he’s out with someone else.” I make quotation marks in the air with my fingers and then, running out of steam, plop down on the big square ottoman in front of my fireplace. My head feels like an elephant is sitting on it, and I bury my face in my hands. Through my fingers, I mutter, “I am such a cliché.”
He laughs—a real, non-sarcastic chuckle—surprising me. I lift my throbbing head to stare at him.
“You’re not a cliché, Jen. Hardly,” he says. “Seven years and I still haven’t figured out the first damn thing about you.”
I turn that over in my brain as he continues. “You and I both know this was never going to work,” he says. “We were complacent, but we weren’t happy.”
His words hang in the air like a wilting balloon.
“That’s no excuse for cheating on me,” I say after a long pause, fighting back a new round of tears and wondering if he’d cheated on me before or if this was the first time.
“And all of this”—he gestures between himself and me, I guess indicating our argument—“is no excuse for you sabotaging me on Facebook. Brianna is my employee. I could get fired for being with her, and now everybody’s going to know about it.”
I glare at him, incredulous. “It’s all about you, is it? In case you didn’t notice, I sabotaged myself on Facebook. And I do not remember doing it. So don’t think this was some big revenge plot. Besides, I’m not even Facebook friends with people at your office. I don’t see how they’d know about it.” I pause again, and neither of us says anything for at least a minute.
Abruptly he stands, and I glance up at him, surprised. His eyes are focused on my lap, and my eyes follow his back down to my hands, which are clasped tightly together above my knees. He’s looking for the ring. My stomach lurches with panic when I realize I’m not wearing it, and then I have a sudden flash of memory—at some point after getting home last night, I threw it across my bedroom. I frown, and when I look back up his expression mirrors mine.
“I think it’s best if I leave,” he says in a stony voice. “I have to get to work anyway, and I am not looking forward to it.”
“Trust me, I know the feeling,” I say, looking him square in the eyes and rising too. Feeling numb, I walk over to the door and yank it open. He stands and stares at me for several seconds, looking like he wants to say something, but then he walks past me and through the doorway without another word.
I slam it with a little extra force behind his retreating form, and then I stomp back over to the desk and wake up the laptop screen, cringing as I check to see who else is witness to the virtual wreckage of my life.
CHAPTER FOUR
Passive Aggression
Friday morning, I enter the front door of Greenlee Designs with my chin jutted forward and my head held high. I can feel the eyes of every person in the studio boring into me as I deposit my bag into the lower left drawer of my desk and flip open my laptop.
Once I’ve logged in to my computer, I lift my head to see Ellie Kate watching me with pursed lips, her eyes filled with sympathy. Beyond her, Quinn’s expression is one of barely suppressed glee. Rachael doesn’t appear to be here yet. Carson i
s on the phone and thumbing through a catalog. Brice, Candace’s assistant and our design librarian, is busy shelving fabrics samples and isn’t paying any attention to me. A normal morning at the office. I sigh in relief, thinking maybe my Facebook post wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe Candace didn’t even hear about it.
I see no sign of Candace in the building. She’s the only person at the firm with her own office—a big, rectangular space with the only window in the studio apart from the floor-to-ceiling plate glass windows on the building’s front façade. Our firm is on South Main Street, a quaint, retro-looking downtown street with 1920s-style storefronts and trolley tracks running its length. The building, a former cotton warehouse, was converted in the early 2000s into commercial space at street level with condos above, and Greenlee Designs is tucked in beside a clothing boutique and a small, independent record studio. Candace tricked out our offices with sleek, mid-century modern furniture that mixes well with the exposed brick walls and original hardwood floors.
As I’m looking toward her office, Candace suddenly appears in its doorway. She has a slight frown on her face, and before I can look away, she turns on her heel and walks back into her office, as if she’s forgotten something. I glance at Ellie Kate, who shrugs.
I pull up my schedule and then open my file for the bakery project I’m working on. It’s the third location for a local chain, and it’s the most fun project I have going right now. The owner, Chick Emerson, has loads of personality and a new hair color almost every week. The shop is in an old, converted Midtown house, and we’re using a palette of frosting-hued pastels, including wood floors painted in a diagonal mint-green-and-white check. I have a meeting with Chick this afternoon to discuss lighting options. I’m immersed in my work, so I don’t notice Candace emerge from her office again until she’s standing beside my desk.
“Jen, darling,”—Candace calls everyone darling—“you might want to think about using a higher SPF. Too much sun wreaks havoc on the complexion.” She studies me coolly for a few seconds as I bristle inwardly. These “helpful” insults of hers make my blood boil, but at least she’s speaking to me. Maybe everything will just go back to normal. My brow furrows as I try to decide whether this is a good or a bad thing.
How to Look Happy Page 3