I look around at the people gathered in our living room: Sam does a rat-a-tat on her swollen belly, cooing, “Happy New Year, little lady.” Leo high-fives Kirsten, quipping that he’ll have to wait an hour to wish his wife a happy new year in Chicago. Kirsten starts in on a sloppy rendition of Auld Lang Syne, and everyone else joins in. The bittersweet melody makes me feel clammy and claustrophobic. I’m desperate for everyone to get out.
Sam eyes me. “Well, when your hostess is standing around in a towel, I guess it’s time to hit the road. It’s way past my bedtime anyway.” She pulls herself up with effort, and I hand her her coat. “I love you, you pain in the ass,” she says, leaning in for a hug.
“You’re the pain in the ass, but I love you too.”
She wags a finger at me. “Talk to Gabe, okay? Also, take care of our drunken pal.” We glance at Kirsten; she’s nodded off on the couch, her gaping mouth leaking a string of drool.
Leo heads out, too. At the door, I wish him luck with Lana’s return and silently thank him for not asking about Charlie.
With everyone either gone or unconscious, Gabe says he’s turning in. He asks if I’m coming. “Soon,” I reply.
I take in my friend, passed out on the couch—I’m tempted to leave her be, knowing she’ll wake up not only mortified but also with a killer crick in the neck, payback for tonight. But my humanitarian instinct kicks in, and I ease her onto her side and tuck her under a blanket. I text Caleb to say his wife is safe and sound.
As it turns out, the stupid staging of Gabe’s book has piqued my interest—did Russell and Dahlia break up, or has he started cheating on her? The latter seems highly unlikely—but then again, until a few days ago, I would’ve said it was highly unlikely for me to kiss someone other than my fiancé. I pick up one of the discarded books and skim past the sex scene with Chrissy. On the next page, I spot Natasha’s name:
Russell hadn’t meant to hook up with Natasha. It’s just that after the night with Chrissy, the electricity that hummed through him just kept on humming, like the opening of a floodgate.
The mixed metaphor doesn’t even bother me, so relieved am I to be reading the page silently and without an audience.
When Russell remembered sex with Dahlia,
So then, it’s in the past, over? I can hardly believe my eyes.
he thought of magnets locking together with a powerful attraction, a fundamental force of nature. But there’d also been the flip side, when the fields reversed and they’d repelled each other just as intensely. Then they couldn’t get close, even if they’d wanted to. A few drunken nights after their fight, after Dahlia skipped town, Russell had called her hoping for phone sex or least some comforting words, for old time’s sake. Dahlia had hung up on him. She called back a few hours later, but by then Russell had sobered up enough to come to his senses. Their timing was off, thankfully.
It was a revelation to Russell that the magnetism worked with all these other girls, too. And now the timing was perfect. College was over, he was single, and he was riding out his lease until September, at which point he’d turn his attention to adulthood. For now, he was in sweet limbo. At the moment that meant snaking through the aisles of 7–11 just past dawn, still warm from the bed sheets of the girl he’d met last night. He was filling a jumbo cup with coffee when he noticed a familiar figure at the next spigot: Dahlia’s old roommate, Natasha. “Hey,” he said.
They eyed each other suspiciously. Natasha ragged on Russell for using the fake vanilla creamer. But then they laughed a little, and Natasha told him about her new roommate, a Math major on the autism spectrum, whose flat affect and stringent routines were a welcome change from the high dramas of Dahlia.
Russell paid for Natasha’s coffee, one cup at 7-11, followed by another at the snooty pour-over shop around the corner. Then they had brunch, which turned into happy hour, and before Russell knew it, the whole day had passed and he and Natasha were headed back to the old apartment. He hadn’t returned since the day he’d rescued Dahlia’s belongings from the porch. It smelled and looked the same, and an old twinge of lust overtook Russell. He touched Natasha on the arm. In less than ten minutes, they were horizontal.
The sex was rough, almost hostile, but also cleansing, like they were both pounding away at their anger at Dahlia, working together to work it out of their systems. Natasha told Russell to slap her ass, which he did, and then to slap her across the face, and when he hesitated, she growled and bit him on the shoulder, hard. He tugged at her hair and she raked jagged fingernails down his back. The scratches and bruises across Russell’s body would take days to fade.
When they finished, both panting, Natasha collapsed into Russell’s lap. She was wearing a single sock stamped with the logo of the college both of them (but not Dahlia) had just graduated from. Russell felt desiccated, spent. When he finally stood up, oxygen rushed to his head, along with a realization: It was time to leave this town. And so he did, the very next day, and he never returned.
At one point, I would have cheered. I would have felt filled with optimism—thinking now that Russell has left Dahlia behind, maybe I could too. But now I don’t even care. I retreat to the bedroom, hoping Gabe will be asleep.
He’s not. He turns over in bed to face me. “Hey.”
I wave, then walk past him to go pick out pajamas, but Gabe stops me. “Molly.” He gestures for me to sit. I position myself on the very edge of the bed, feeling like I’ve been summoned to the principal’s office. Gabe clears his throat. “I know we’ve had some misunderstandings, and it hasn’t been easy, especially being separated by thousands of miles. I want to try to explain the royalties thing. I only agreed to give Talia a cut because she was saying crazy stuff. Back when she and I were together, we made a sex tape.”
“Seriously?” I scoff. “This is your apology?”
“Just hear me out, okay? I swear we erased the tape, but Talia was claiming she still had a copy, and if I didn’t promise to pay her part of my book money, then she would post it on her social media. I’m sure it was an empty threat—she was really worked up—but I had to say something to calm her down. I assumed she’d forget about it once she cooled off. I didn’t tell you at the time because I was hoping I wouldn’t have to. I’m really sorry.”
None of this makes me feel better. “It just keeps getting worse, huh? What other fun facts about you and Talia are going to be dredged up and paraded before me next?”
A flash of frustration passes over Gabe’s face. “To be fair, Molly, you were the one who suggested she and I meet up.”
“Oh, so this is my fault?”
“No, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just, I can’t change the fact that I dated Talia, or that I wrote this book, and now it’s getting published. But please, let’s talk about this stuff. A new year is supposed to be a fresh start, a time to clear the air. Will you do that with me? Please.” Gabe reaches out a hand.
But I can’t. I’m too furious. I grab a pillow and storm out of the room.
Out in the living room, I settle myself onto the rug. Kirsten is on the couch above me, her snores like an old junker’s engine. I lie awake, burbling with anxiety, watching the clock’s progress. At 4:30, I can still hear people reveling outside on the street, so I stand up, open the window, and shout down, “Shut up and go home already!”
A girl peers upward, spots me, and shouts back, “You shut up, you fucking party pooper!”
I’m outraged at this insult from this complete stranger. I lean my whole head out the window, take in a big gulp of air, and yell out at the top of my lungs, “Fuck you!” Then, for probably the first time in my life, I stick up my middle finger and jut it out toward the girl. My sapphire ring winks in the night, making me feel powerful and dangerous.
Chapter 20
WHEN MY BOSS schedules a New Year’s check-in, I assume she wants to chat about our holidays over K-cup coffee. But after asking me to close the door behind me, Natalie hands me a progress report showing three of my rec
ent hires that didn’t pan out, and two positions still unfilled long after deadline. I shrink in my seat. She may as well have stamped me with a fat red F. I can barely tolerate A-minuses.
“I promise I’ll do better,” I say, voice cracking. “These last few months have just been …” I falter, unsure how to explain.
“Everyone has ups and downs,” Natalie says. I anticipate a reassuring smile, but her lips stay pursed. “And if it were just this …” Now she’s the one to trail off, looking down at her lap. I feel my mouth go dry and the back of my neck dampen.
“A candidate you met with in December contacted me,” she says. A knot of fear tightens in my gut. “This young woman claims that during her interview you accused her of falsifying information and demanded she discuss details of her romantic life. She says that when she refused, you dismissed her out of hand. She also claims you showed up outside her home.”
Talia saw me that day? I start to stutter, fumbling to defend myself. But I know Natalie is allergic to melodrama—and it would only damage my credibility further to explain the story of my fiancé’s crazy ex-girlfriend posing as a job candidate in order to confront me and screw with my relationship, and my getting sucked into her whole game. I settle on a simple “I’m sorry.”
“I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt,” my boss says. “I’ve always known you to be a consummate professional. But consider this a serious warning. I’ll ask that you leave your door open during interviews for the foreseeable future.”
I nod sturdily, trying to revive my reputation as a consummate professional. I repeat my promise to do better in an earnest speech that’s halted by Natalie’s Okay, enough palm.
• • •
The last person I want to see right now is Jonathan Wexler. His gait is even jauntier than usual, and I try to pass with just a nod, but he blocks my path. “I’ve been meaning to thank you.” I wait out his pause, which is clearly meant to tantalize me. “You’re the reason I met the girl I’m seeing.”
“Me?” I try not to notice the hint of sex in Jonathan’s smug smile, or the strain of hysteria in my voice. I have a feeling I know where this is going.
“We met outside the office after she interviewed with you. She bummed a smoke and we hit it off. Maybe you remember her—short-ish, dark hair, golden eyes, stunning.”
“Talia?” I ask, desperate to be wrong.
Jonathan claps me on the back. “Yes! Man, is she a firecracker!”
“Excuse me.” I retreat to my office, suddenly spent, my limbs like spaghetti. The first thing I do after promising my boss I’ll improve at my job is curl up under my desk for a nap.
• • •
I’m woken by a call from Lana. Her voice is oddly low, though when it comes to her these days, I’ve tossed out all expectations. “Why are you whispering?” I ask. “I can barely hear you.”
“I’m in the dressing room. You’ll never guess who just walked in to Bella So. LaLa!”
“Who?”
“Larissa freaking Laraby!”
“Oh, cool,” I say. The Larabys are those tabloid celebrities famous for being famous; I don’t quite understand people’s obsession with them. “So, you’re back at work. How is it?”
“Fine. It’s only been an hour.”
“And already you’re hiding out in a dressing room making covert phone calls?” But I’m not really one to talk—I brush off my skirt and get up from my office floor.
“Listen, Molly, I have Gabe’s book in my purse, the copy Leo brought home. I’m going to give it to LaLa. How cool would it be for the world’s most popular reality TV star to read Gabe’s book?”
My skin starts prickling with nerves. “Lana, don’t you think that on your first day back you should just do your job? Like, give this woman dresses to try on, not unsolicited reading material?”
“Don’t you follow the news, Molly? LaLa’s not the one getting married. She’s here with her friend. LaLa’s just sitting around picking at her manicure. Which is fierce, by the way. I happen to think she would really identify with a strong female character like Dahlia.”
“Lana—”
“Okay, I’m gonna do it. Wish me luck! Bye.”
I’m left with a foreboding thrum in my chest. Fingers shaky on the keyboard, I manage to confirm an interview for tomorrow morning, and that’s it, work-wise. I pace my office, imagining Larissa Laraby’s security detail pouncing on Lana, handcuffs and cries of protest, a stark jail cell, Leo arriving to bail her out, and the ensuing tabloid headline: “Shop girl turns nutso celeb stalker.” I decide to cut out of work early.
The next morning, the normally reticent coffee cart guy by the subway wishes me a happy new year. Suspicious, I fumble my quarters onto the pavement, then spill half my coffee, scalding my palm. That’s when I notice I’m wearing two different shoes: one black, one navy blue. I stride up Fifth Avenue self-consciously, and I’m several blocks north of my office before I realize I’ve overshot it. Backtracking, I’m bumped left and right by other commuters; I wonder if I’ve suddenly turned invisible. When I reach into my purse, I discover that my water bottle has opened, soggying everything inside, and also that I’ve forgotten my office key card. I miss an elevator, its closing doors nearly severing my fingertips. Fuck.
Late for my first interview, frantically scanning the candidate’s résumé, I’m infected with an eerie sense of déjà vu. Bachelor’s degree from Tufts, Stern Business School, interests in chess and ultimate Frisbee—all the stats are familiar. Even the name sounds fishy: Summer Rose Lee. Talia, I think. What does that psycho have up her sleeve now?
My computer dings to notify me of a new email. It’s from Lana, subject “LaLa!” and, to the soundtrack of my racing heart, I click the link in the body. It loads slowly: First the splashy TMZ.com header, then a close-up photo of Larissa Laraby clutching—yep, there it is now—Gabe’s novel. The caption reads:
LALA A LOVER OF LITERATURE? REALITY STAR CAUGHT RED-HANDED WITH RACY NEW NOVEL THE CHARMS OF DAHLIA.
After staring for a long minute at the shot, half disbelieving, I speed-read the article, a shoddy, judge-a-book-by-its-cover analysis. The final paragraph makes me want to take a hammer to my hard drive:
NO WONDER LALA COUNTS HERSELF A FAN OF THE SEXY AND SCANDALOUS READ. ITS LEADING LADY IS A LOT LIKE HER: GORGEOUS AND GALLING, SHARP AND SEDUCTIVE, A TEENSY BIT CRAZY BUT TOTALLY IRRESISTIBLE. LARISSA LARABY IS ON TEAM DAHLIA AND SOON THE REST OF AMERICA WILL BE, TOO.
I’m startled by a knock. Jonathan is hanging on my doorframe. “What do you want?” I snap.
“They’ve been paging you out front for ten minutes. Your candidate is here.” As Jonathan ushers the woman into my office, I swear I see him touch the small of her back. She’s model-gorgeous, but in a scrappy hipster way—Talia’s precise kind of pretty. I’m flooded with paranoia. Who is this woman? Talia’s coconspirator? Her detective? Is Jonathan in on it, too? Panicky theories zip through my head like deranged comets.
The woman doesn’t wait to be invited in. “I’m Summer Rose Lee,” she says, her voice a babyish purr.
I suppress a shudder and shake her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
It’s all downhill from there. I go through the motions of the interview, but all of Summer Rose Lee’s answers strike me as suspicious: A friend tipped her off about the job, she’s heard incredible things about Funhouse Branding, she’s been looking for this kind of role for a while, it’s her dream job. I keep up a polite front for five minutes before I can’t take it anymore. I cut the crap and change my line of questioning: “So why are you really here? What’s your end game? Who sent you?”
She’s a terrible actress, pretending that she has no idea what I’m talking about. Her face goes pale through a thick layer of foundation. Good.
I’m on a roll, adrenaline pumping: “Listen, I know you’re Talia’s little pawn, and she’s trying to intimidate me or threaten me or whatever. But I’m telling you, her plan won’t work. No, siree, not this time aro
und. No way, José.”
“Is Talia the recruiter?” Already the girl’s voice has changed, syrupy with faux-fear; already she’s cracking. An actual tear hovers on her lashes. Her acting is pathetic. “If there’s something going on between you two, I swear I don’t know anything—”
“Oh, come off it, Summer Rose Lee, if that’s even your real name. And we both know it’s not.” I grab her so-called “résumé,” and tear it to scraps, relishing the sound of the ripping. Her eyes bulge fake-naively as bits of the paper flutter confetti-like to the carpet.
“I think I should leave,” she says. It’s at this point, as I sit surrounded by the detritus of the résumé, my insides feeling as if they might explode through my skin, and all color drained from the face of the woman sitting across from me, that I feel the tiniest inkling that maybe I’ve got it wrong, maybe this is a genuine candidate who has nothing to do with Talia, maybe I’m losing a hold on what’s clear and true—but it’s just a flicker of a thought, barely there and then gone. I watch as the woman lifts both hands in surrender, and the melodrama of the gesture is just too much.
I snap. I zero in on the brooch on her lapel, silk petals looped to a wire pistil. It’s the kind of thing you’d find at a stoop sale, chintzy and cheap. I take it as another sign of her imposterism. I don’t seriously think that the brooch contains a hidden camera, but the fact that it could contain one is reason enough for me to lunge across the desk and grab at it, ripping it free from her shirt. My trembling fingers work furiously to dismantle the petals from the wiring. Anger pulses through me. It’s invigorating. I feel strong and in charge, brimming with purpose. The shrieks and howls coming from across the room barely register.
And then Natalie is there. She doesn’t even glance in my direction. She’s laser-focused on the fraud sitting across from me, apologizing, asking if she’s all right. Before I can explain that no, Natalie’s got it backwards, my boss is ushering the woman away with a protective arm, as if she’s the one who needs to be shielded from me and not the other way around.
Otherwise Engaged Page 17