“Four hundred.”
“You’re kidding. Four hundred dollars? As in forty thousand pennies?”
He nodded. “Yep. Four hundred smacks. Why do you think I never play golf?”
“I guess I never really thought about whether or not you play golf.”
“Not anymore I don’t. Check out the parking lot of any of the nicer courses in San Francisco. Some of the cars cost more than my house did. Once we had the first kid, I pretty much hung up my clubs, unless, of course, a client’s paying.”
“Damn,” I said.
“No kidding.”
Just then, Jess stood up and shushed the group to get the meeting started. Kent and I stopped talking and turned our attention toward the front of the room.
I was off the hook. For now.
When I got back to my office, I sat down at my desk and looked at my e-mails. There was nothing from Davey. Where was he? There was, however, a message from Cynthia Hopyard, a senior VP in our New York office, asking me to call her. A few months earlier, she’d gotten engaged to Dale Payton, one of the top sports agents in the country, and moved to New York to live with him.
I adjusted my ponytail and sat back in my chair. Then I checked to make sure my door was closed and quickly dialed McKenna’s number at work.
“McKenna Taylor,” she said.
“Hey, it’s me.”
“Hey. Well?”
“Well, it looks like no one here knows about my Friday night adventure. Can you believe it?”
“Are you serious? No one saw you?”
“Well, if anyone did, no one’s letting on. Wait, wait, e-mail from Davey just popped into my in-box. Hold on a sec while I open it.”
I clicked on the message and held my breath.
To: Waverly Bryson
From: David Mason
Subject: Re: Super Show wrap-up
Hi Waverly. Glad to see you made it back safely. We looked everywhere for you at the Jammin’ party but lost you in the crowd. Good times. I look forward to seeing the report.
Cheers,
Dave
“Well?” she said.
I leaned back in my chair and exhaled. “It looks like the fisherman is throwing me back.”
“Waverly Bryson, you are one lucky girl.”
“Okay, I would hesitate before using the word lucky to describe the big picture here, but for the small picture I may have to agree with you,” I said.
I heard something beep in her office. “I’m sorry, Wave, but my ten o’clock just arrived, so I gotta run. Talk later?”
“Okay, bye.”
I stood up and walked to the window. I pushed my forehead against the glass and looked at the view. My breath fogged up a little patch of glass, and I drew a little happy face with my finger.
Thank God.
Just then there was a knock on my door. I walked over to open it.
“Hey, Waverly, you got a minute? I’d like to talk to you about something.”
My stomach dropped.
“Sure, Jess, what’s up?”
“Could you drop by my office in a few minutes?”
“Um, okay.”
“Thanks.”
I shut the door and leaned my back against it. This didn’t look good.
Five minutes later I walked over to Jess’s office and knocked lightly on the open door.
“Hi, Waverly, have a seat.” He got up and shut the door behind me.
I set my coffee cup on his desk and folded my hands on my lap. I tried to sound casual. “So, what’s up?” I said.
He looked me straight in the eye. “Well, I’m not going to sugar-coat this.”
I bit my lip.
“It’s come to my attention that you were severely intoxicated at JAG’s party on Friday night. Severely intoxicated.”
All the blood in my body suddenly rushed to my cheeks. I seriously thought they might explode.
I looked at the floor and didn’t say anything.
“Is that true?” he said.
I nodded slowly.
He sighed. “I was hoping you wouldn’t say that. Okay, I don’t need to know the gory details, but I’ve got to tell you that I’m pretty disappointed in you, Waverly.”
I kept looking down at my hands. “I’m sorry, Jess.”
We sat there in agonizing silence for a few moments, and then he finally spoke. “Waverly, I know that trade show parties can get a little crazy, but you’re an account director, and I expect you to behave more professionally than that. I need you to behave more professionally than that, or it may damage the relationship K.A. Marketing has with JAG. Do you understand?”
I looked up at him and nodded. “I understand.”
“I would hate for this incident to jeopardize your career here. But this is a large company, and gossip spreads fast. So you’ve got to realize that people expect you to behave in a certain way, okay?”
“Okay,” I said softly.
“All right then. I trust it won’t happen again?”
I shook my head. “It won’t, Jess. I promise.”
“Good.”
More awkward silence.
“Um, Jess?”
“Yes?”
“Who told you?”
“That’s not important.”
“Was it Davey?”
“No. And that’s the last question I’m answering about it.”
“Okay.”
I looked down at my hands again.
“Jess?”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry.”
I stood up and slowly walked out of his office, squeezing my coffee cup so hard I thought it might break. I turned and looked back at him. “I really am sorry.”
He nodded, but he didn’t say anything.
I walked to the kitchen to get some water. My legs were shaking so much I had to put my hands on the counter to steady myself. I had the sinking feeling that Jess had planned to fire me but had changed his mind when he saw my face. How could I have screwed things up so much?
“Hey, Waverly, I heard you had a great time at the Super Show.”
I turned around and saw Mandy Edwards in the doorway.
“What?” I said.
“Sounds like that party on Friday night was a rager. Sorry I missed it.” She smiled and walked away.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Somehow I made it through the rest of the week, although I don’t really remember actually doing anything. I avoided everyone and spent the days holed up in my office, wondering if anyone would notice if I never came out. When the weekend finally arrived, I planned to spend it holed up in my apartment, wondering if anyone would notice if I never came out.
“C’mon, Waverly, let’s go out for happy hour,” McKenna said early Friday afternoon. “Maybe it’ll make you feel better.”
“I’d rather visit my dad,” I said. “Does that tell you anything?”
“Fine, fine. But I’m calling you again tomorrow.”
“Good luck with that,” I said.
When Saturday afternoon rolled around, I decided to get off my butt and go for a run. I doubt there are many places more beautiful to run than San Francisco on a crisp winter day, so I hoped it would cheer me up. As I headed down the hill toward the Golden Gate Bridge, I looked out at the spectacular view below. The water was sprinkled with sailboats, and I could see a number of touch-football and pickup soccer games going on at the Marina Green. Back in college I always wore headphones when I ran, but once I moved to San Francisco I had stopped using them. The scenery was entertainment enough, so for years I’d been enjoying my runs with only the gentle rhythm of my breathing to accompany me. I often ran through the Presidio, part of the Golden Gate Recreation Area, and there was something about the feel and sound of leaves crackling under my feet that invigorated me. This particular Saturday was a typical December day, cold yet not freezing, and once I warmed up, the cool air on my face was refreshing.
I weaved through the Presidio and made my way toward the G
olden Gate Bridge. When I reached the path leading up to the entrance, I looked at my watch. I had already been running for my standard max of thirty-five minutes, but I wasn’t tired yet, so I decided to keep going and started the trek across. I couldn’t go very fast though, because it was really crowded. The pedestrian walkway on the bridge was always packed with tourists, the majority of them dressed in the ubiquitous FISHERMAN’S WHARF or PROPERTY OF ALCATRAZ fleeces they’d had to buy because they hadn’t realized how cold it was going to be. Sometimes the fog was so thick you couldn’t even see the bridge, much less Alcatraz, but those cheesy fleeces were hard to miss.
When I got to the other side, I looked at my watch again. I’d been running for nearly fifty minutes, and now I was definitely tired, and I still had to get back. Oops. Nice distance management. But I didn’t mind. It was such a gorgeous day, and I wasn’t in a hurry, so I decided to walk leisurely back to the San Francisco side of the bridge and up the hill to my apartment. The sun was slowly melting my bad mood away.
On the way back, I watched all the groups of guys playing football and soccer on the grassy Marina Green. Some of them looked pretty cute, and I wished I could stop to watch and casually strike up a conversation when a loose ball flew my way, just like happens in the movies.
But this wasn’t the movies, so my feet kept moving. They carried me to the Coffee Roastery three blocks away on Chestnut Street, and I was glad I had tucked a five-dollar bill into my pocket. It was a cold day, and a hot chocolate and a warm banana nut muffin were calling my name.
Unfortunately, the snacks weren’t the only ones calling my name.
“Hey, Waverly, how’s it going?”
I turned around, and there was Brad Cantor.
“Oh, hi, Brad, how are you?” Everywhere, that’s how he was.
“I’m good, good. What a gorgeous day!” He stood too close to me, as usual, and I found myself stepping backward.
“Yep,” I said, looking over his shoulder for help.
He stepped a little closer. “I’m just grabbing an afternoon snack. I love the chocolate cake here.”
I smiled and took another step back, then looked at the cashier. “Can you change that to go please?” I whispered.
“So, are you coming to my holiday party next weekend?” Brad said.
I bit my lip. “Uh, a party next weekend? I don’t think I know about it.”
“Oh, well I sent you the Evite, but I can tell from the master list that you haven’t opened it yet.”
Oops, busted. I had, of course, received the Evite but had immediately deleted it. “Oh, it must be lost in my in-box. I’ll have to dig through it and look.”
“It’s next Saturday. The theme is elves and reindeer. I’ll send you a reminder e-mail as soon as I get back to my apartment.”
Elves and reindeer? “Okay, see ya.” I took a sip of my hot chocolate and started walking toward the door.
“Wait up. I’ll walk with you. Which way are you going?”
It was a classic Brad Cantor question. No matter how I answered, I was screwed.
I gambled and told the truth. “Um, up the hill to Pacific Heights.”
“Cool, me too. Hang on a sec. I’ll get my cake to go.”
Ugh.
When I was finally alone in my apartment a half-hour later, I sat down on the couch and cursed myself for not just telling Brad that I really wanted to enjoy my walk home, alone. Instead I had spent the last thirty minutes listening to him ramble on about his strategy for winning an online Doom tournament he was signed up to play in that night.
I grabbed a notebook off the coffee table and jotted down an idea for a Honey Note.
Front: Is it worse to be fake or bitchy?
Inside: Honey, just face it. If you’re asking, you’re probably both.
Still in my sweats later that afternoon, I drove down to the Marina Safeway, which had the reputation of being more of a pickup joint than a supermarket. People even said that girls put on makeup just to shop there. Ick. I normally stayed away from that whole scene, but the Mollie Stone’s by my apartment was closed for renovation. And the only non-condiment in my fridge was a fat block of cheese, so I was desperate.
Once I was ready to head to the checkout line, I rounded an aisle and smashed right into another shopper. I hit his cart so hard that a box of super jumbo tampons went flying right out of mine.
“Oh God, I’m so sorry.” I bent down to pick up the box. Of course it would be the tampons. Did I mention they were super jumbo?
“Hi, Waverly.”
I froze at the sound of his voice. No no no no no why why why why why?
I stood up and adjusted my dirty ponytail. “Uh, hi, Aaron, how’s it going?”
“Good, it’s going good. How are you?”
“I’m fine, thanks,” I said. I was painfully far from fine. And it was painfully obvious that he wasn’t alone.
He looked to his right and then back at me. “Um, Waverly, this is my fiancée, Stacy Long. Stacy, this is Waverly Bryson.”
I looked at the brunette next to him. Supermodel, of course.
“Uh, hi, it’s nice to meet you, Stacy.” I glanced from her trendy pants and boots down to my dusty running shoes. Who wears trendy boots to go grocery shopping? And could my sweatpants be any baggier?
She smiled. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”
“Um, congratulations,” I said. “I saw the announcement in the paper.”
“Thanks,” Aaron said. “I was going to call you to tell you, but we’ve just been so busy.”
He’d been too busy? That’s why he didn’t call?
My mind raced for something witty to say, but I couldn’t think of anything, and the three of us just stood there in silence.
Awkward, soul-killing silence.
Then I looked at my cart and almost laughed out loud. It was packed with frozen dinners and canned vegetables. Nothing screams I haven’t had sex in a year! better than a shopping cart full of single-serving frozen dinners.
I looked over Aaron’s head, wondering how I could escape such torture. Where was Brad Cantor when I needed him? I tried to repeat Shane’s mental exercise and think of something funny to keep me from bursting into tears, but the only funny thing I could think of was that box of tampons flying out of my cart. I mean COME ON!
I took a deep breath. To hell with being polite, I was getting out of there. “Well, uh, I gotta go,” I said. “It was good seeing you, Aaron. Nice to meet you, Stacy.”
“It was good to see you, Waverly,” Aaron said. “Take care.”
Take care? From the man I nearly married? I pushed my cart past them and swore I would starve to death before ever going back to the Marina Safeway.
I walked to my car and put the groceries away, then realized that I’d forgotten to buy sugar, the ONE thing I couldn’t live without. I cursed myself and headed back toward the entrance. I was about fifty feet away when I saw Aaron and Stacy leave the store with their cart, heading right for me.
I don’t know what came over me, but without even thinking, I jumped to my left and ducked behind a car. I crouched down and hid there, praying that they hadn’t seen me. And praying that if they had, I could think of a believable explanation for why I was squatting behind a car.
I tried to keep quiet and control my breathing, which suddenly seemed way louder than it should be. I sat down on the ground and curled my knees up to my chest. I couldn’t believe what I was doing. Was I really nearly 30 years old?
About fifteen seconds later, I could hear the sound of a cart and footsteps passing by. I lifted my head up and watched until they got in their car and drove away, then slowly stood up. I wiped the dirt off my butt and looked around. A woman getting out of her car gave me a strange look, but otherwise I was in the clear.
Did I mention that I’m never going back to the Marina Safeway?
When I got home, I jotted down an idea for a Honey Note.
Front: Ever run into an ex looking like crap?
After a hot shower, I reread the Honey Note and decided that a margarita was exactly what I needed. Enough wallowing.
I called McKenna and got her voicemail.
“Hey, it’s me. I need a margarita, and I need it yesterday,” I said after the beep.
Then I called Andie.
“Hey, it’s me. I need a margarita, and I need it yesterday,” I said.
“Sweet. I’ll pick you up in one hour,” she said.
Having two best friends comes in very handy sometimes.
Two hours later, Andie and I were on our second margarita at Left at Albuquerque on Union Street. We were sitting at a high round table in the bar area, mowing through our second bowl of chips and salsa like champs.
“The tampons really flew out of your cart?” she said.
I nodded. “Like a pigeon in front of a moving car.”
“And she was pretty?” she said.
I nodded. “Very pretty.”
“And he looked good?”
I nodded. “Very good.”
“But did he look happy?”
I nodded. “Very happy.”
“And you looked gross?”
I put my elbows on the table and covered my face with my hands. “Very gross.”
“Damn,” she said.
“My life is a bowl of crap,” I said, motioning to the waitress. “Can we get another round of margaritas and some more chips and salsa over here please?”
Two margaritas later, we were well on our way to Sloshistan.
“Ya know,” I slurred to Andie and raised my glass. “Who needs men? Here’s to girlfriends.”
“Here’s to girlfriends,” she slurred back, raising her glass. We clinked our drinks together and polished them off.
“I’m going to call Mackie and tell her how much I love her,” I said, pulling my phone out of my purse.
Just then, a tall guy in a light blue button-down shirt and khaki pants walked up to us. (I would bet my life savings that at any given time at least 40 percent of guys in the Marina district are wearing this exact same outfit, give or take a fleece vest.)
Perfect on Paper: The (Mis)Adventures of Waverly Bryson Page 9