Otherwise Engaged

by Lindsey Palmer

  I remain seated, floor around me littered with résumé bits and lap a mess of broken brooch pieces. My face is on fire, my palms glued to my desk with sweat. I’m fuming. Incredulous. Indignant. Natalie soon returns, and even before she starts speaking, I know she’ll deliver the carefully worded speech that I’ve recited so many times I could do it in my sleep. She’ll touch briefly on my years of good work, move on to the section about actions and their consequences, and cap things off with the details of my severance package.

  I look around my office, at all the artifacts I’ve collected over the course of my professional career. So much junk. None of it seems to have anything to do with me. I grab the ficus tree and a photo collage Gabe made for me for our first anniversary, and abandon the rest.

  On the way out, Security parades me past the rows of cubicles, and I spot Melinda Lowe craning her neck to watch. “Why don’t you snap a picture?” I holler. The loud, brash voice doesn’t sound like me; it emboldens me to keep going: “Post it to Instagram for your bazillion followers. Hashtag crazy coworker, hashtag meltdown, hashtag dunzo.” Melinda just gapes. I overhear someone say, “I read about her fiancé on TMZ. He wrote a book about a psycho girlfriend, and I hear it’s totally based on Molly.”

  I wheel around. “Fuck you. Fuck all of you.”

  I don’t wait for the elevator with the guard. I push past him to shove open the stairwell door, and practically fly down the flights, feeling high. For the very last time, I’m leaving the place where I’ve spent most of my waking hours for the past decade, and for the first time in a very long time, I feel free.

  Chapter 21

  I BURST INTO Bella So, plunk down my plant and my picture frame, and breeze past the model-y clientele and through to the back room. I find Lana’s torso hanging halfway out a window as she blows cigarette smoke into the alley. Instead of asking what I’m doing there, she says, “Are you hungry, perchance?”

  “Fucking starving.”

  “Good, me too. I could eat an entire cow.”

  But we don’t end up eating. We go to a trendy cocktail bar for a liquid lunch—three martinis apiece, followed by straight shots of vodka—after which I feel like a hero for my performance back at the office. Lana cheers me on. “Now that I don’t have to go to work each day,” I say, “I’ll have plenty of time to confront Talia and get to the bottom of who this Summer Rose Lee is.”

  “Wait, did you say Talia?” Lana asks, eyes growing wide. “Hold on.”

  On her phone, she pulls up another TMZ post about Larissa Laraby. In this one, the reality star is quoted as saying, “I was totally a Dahlia in my early twenties. I had guys wrapped around my finger.” Lana scrolls down to a section labeled, “Who’s the real Dahlia Freid?” Below an airbrushed photo of Talia, the same one from her Facebook profile, is the quote, “My years with the author were the most intense romantic rollercoaster you can imagine. It doesn’t surprise me that a love so passionate and pure inspired Gabriel to write a book.”

  “So juicy, right?” Lana says. “Gabe’s book is probably blowing up in pre-sales. Have you checked the numbers?”

  But Gabe’s book sales are the last thing on my mind. I shove the phone back to Lana. “I feel like I’m going to be sick.”

  My sister-in-law studies me seriously. “I have just the thing for that.” She pulls an orange pill bottle from her purse, pops it open, and presses a round white tablet into my palm.

  “What is this?”

  “Just take it, trust me.” So, I do. Lana tosses back a few of the tablets, too.

  Soon, my insides go warm and tingly. By the time the check appears, I’m pulsing with joy, basking in this patch of sunlight in the bar’s window seat with my lovely sister-in-law. How lucky we are to be right here, right now, together.

  The rest of the afternoon is a joyful blur of frolicking through the cityscape. The weekday sidewalks are sparse and the fresh air is languid against my skin. Hours later, as I stand gaping at the fading sunlight framing the skyline in a magical orange glow, I think, I am so, so happy.

  Soon the world tips into darkness, and Lana and I end up back at Bella So. It feels like days, or even weeks, since we were last here. Ingrid approaches, wearing a pursed expression. She asks to speak to Lana privately.

  Left alone, I grab an armful of gowns and make for a dressing room. I shimmy into what I realize is the same gown I tried on before. Only now it doesn’t pull at my hips or butt; now my stomach is a smooth line and my waist a genuine gathering. I emerge from the room and stand on the platform. I spin around, and the silk plays like gentle fingers against my body. The mirror reflects my image like an illustration in a fairytale. The other clients flock around. “That’s beautiful on you,” one girl coos. “You absolutely must get it,” another says. I find the price tag and remember the severance package coming my way; it’ll be a bargain with Lana’s discount.

  “Sold,” I say, delighting in my decisiveness and the squeals surrounding me. And then the dress is being cocooned in layers of stiff tissue, slid into a plush carrying case, and handed off to me by a dour Ingrid. Her mood can’t touch my own. The gown is mine!

  “First day back, and already I’m making commission,” Lana says, hanging on the counter. “How about that?” She winks at Ingrid, who remains unmoved.

  Lana agrees that my ficus tree would add a special something to Bella So’s window display, so I decide to donate it. She has to stay to close the store. I hug her and leave to hail a cab. I lie down across the back seat, laying out the dress bag on top of me. The sounds of car horns and sirens are welcome reminders of how loud and bold and gutsy this city is. For once, I feel a part of it, totally in synch with my surroundings.

  • • •

  When Gabe returns from Nonno, I still haven’t moved from the living room rug, although at some point the fuzzy purr of its bristles against my back has gone dull.

  “Hey, Molly-moo.” Gabe sounds excited. “You’ll never guess what happened today.”

  I’m deadpan to the ceiling: “A reality star got an advanced copy of your book and now it’s blowing up in pre-sales.”

  “Oh, you already know.” Gabe crouches down, peering at me like I have superpowers. He starts spouting details—the press, the expanded print run, his editor’s talk of a sequel—but I can’t quite follow. I’m distracted by the sparks boomeranging between our bodies. I can practically see them. I start stripping off Gabe’s layers of uniform. I push him onto his back, straddle him, and restrain his wrists behind his head. Gabe laughs. “Um, who are you and what have you done with my fiancée?”

  “Good question.”

  Afterward, Gabe brings two glasses of wine and a doggie bag of garlic knots down to the rug. The buttery dough melts on my tongue, delivering bright bursts of spice and salt. My stomach sings. I can’t remember the last time I ate.

  “Look at this, the two of us picnicking naked together at one a.m.,” Gabe says, “On a work night, no less. Whatever’s gotten into you, I think I like it.”

  I tilt back the rest of my wine, drowning the flutter of nerves in my gut.

  • • •

  When I wake up the next morning, there’s a blanket draped over me, and the rug is scratchy against my cheek. My breath is rank with garlic, and my head throbs like it’s been hit with a two-by-four. How much did I drink last night? I wonder. And then a recollection of the whole previous day whooshes over me like a tidal wave, my stomach lurches, and I crawl over to the trash can to vomit.

  Nestled back in my spot on the rug, I feel a crumpled paper under my hip. It’s a note from Gabe: Molly-moo, couldn’t wake you. Off to early meeting with my editor. Love you.

  My phone’s ringing seems to originate from inside of my eardrums. “Hello?” My voice is thick.

  “Molly?” It’s Gabe, sounding alarmed. “Are you okay? Were you still asleep?”

  The wall clock comes into focus: eleven a.m. “What? No, I’m up.”

  “Listen, the publisher’s extending m
y book tour to the West coast, and we’re hammering out a deal for the sequel. They want a reunion with Talia, but we’ll see.”

  “Talia?”

  “What?”

  “Talia. You said they want a reunion with Talia.”

  “Oh!” Gabe’s laugh is light. “I meant, they want Russell to reunite with Dahlia. Also, they’re adding me to these meet-and-greets at malls across the Midwest, with reality stars who’ve written books.” He goes on about how this wasn’t his intended niche, how he’s always pictured himself as kind of a 21st century Burroughs or Exley, but how his editor advised him to recognize his luck and ride the wave of buzz and blah blah blah … I’ve stopped listening.

  I take a deep breath and cut him off mid-sentence: “I was fired yesterday.”

  “Wait, what? I could’ve sworn you just said—.”

  “I did. And actually, I’ve got to go.” I hang up. Then I don’t move for minutes. I’m paralyzed with guilt for cutting through Gabe’s good news with my own crap. But I’m also furious at him for having good news when I seem to have nothing but a nasty hangover; it feels profoundly unfair.

  • • •

  I never thought I would miss rush-hour crowds, but an empty subway car at noon on a Wednesday is a bleak sight. I hook the Bella So dress bag on the overhead bar and stand next to it protectively. The only other woman on the train eyes me skeptically, like no way do I look like the kind of person to own a Bella So gown. She’s right.

  In the shop, an unfamiliar saleswoman greets me, and I ask for Lana. She called in sick, apparently—this woman is filling in. I hoist the dress bag onto the counter and hold out my credit card. “I need to return this.”

  The saleswoman looks confused. “Our gowns aren’t refundable. Did Lana not tell you that?” A well of panic rises past my ears as I try to remember if during yesterday’s haze Lana mentioned a refund policy. “I can give you store credit?”

  I’m picturing my credit card statement: It’ll be mid five figures, and take more than my whole severance package to pay off. I feel my cheeks go hot and my eyes go damp, and I implore my body to keep it together. I lean over the counter and I beg: “Could you make an exception? Lana is my sister-in-law. I lost my job yesterday. Please.”

  “Um, hang on a moment.”

  She turns her back to me and picks up the phone. Amidst her murmuring, I hear Lana’s name. It only now occurs to me that being associated with Lana might not help my case. The saleswoman returns with a pinched, pitying look. “I’m very sorry.”

  Chapter 22

  I HEAR GABE shuffling around, and I open my eyes just long enough to see the bedside clock blink from 7:27 to 7:28 a.m. Lately I haven’t even bothered trying to keep track of his schedule—the interviews, the book tour prep, the dozens of promo pieces he’s writing, the brand marketing sessions (yes, Gabriel Dover is a personal brand now, and the irony is, as Gabe earnestly describes the strategy specifics to me, I can’t even recognize who I’m talking to). When he’s not doing book stuff, he’s at Nonno. Time has become a precious commodity for my fiancé. As for me, I’ve become unmoored from it: Days formerly jammed with appointments and responsibilities have been replaced with stretches of nothing, punctuated by an outing to buy a tube of toothpaste or, more frequently, a bottle of booze.

  I feel Gabe pause, calculating whether or not to nudge me awake and ask me how I’m doing—a calculation I’ve felt him make every morning for weeks. I hold my breath and stay perfectly still. Gabe doesn’t even know the half of how I’m doing—how I squandered my severance on a stupid dress (before discovering that due to the nature of my “departure” I wouldn’t actually be getting any severance), how said departure wasn’t in fact a routine lay-off but a firing, how getting fired rather than laid off is apparently a disqualifier for unemployment benefits, and how I’ve already maxed out several credit cards. The longer I’ve gone without sharing these things with Gabe, the less capable I feel of doing so. I sense Gabe decide against disturbing me, and a moment later I’m alone.

  I awake hours later with an image in my mind: the missing photo collage, the gift from Gabe that I kept at my desk. It suddenly feels imperative that I get it back, each of its photos an essential part of our history: Gabe and me waiting out a rain delay at Yankee Stadium, my damp hair draped onto his shoulder; the two of us leaping into the air at the top of Mount Greylock, our eyes squinty with sun; a close-up of our flushed cheeks pressed together, Ogunquit’s low tide stretching long behind us; a portrait of us toasting flutes of champagne, celebrating my promotion; an out-of-focus pale sliver that’s impossible to tell is Gabe’s ass, from that time we exchanged nude selfies in increasingly absurd positions, a silly escalation that eventually turned sexy for real.

  Where is that damn photo collage? I ransack my apartment, rifling through dresser drawers, overturning boxes, and shoving heavy furniture aside to examine crevices where there’s no way it could be. I call Bella So and ask if they’ve come across a framed collage. I can tell it’s Ingrid on the line, her tone implying that I’m an imbecile. I ask to speak to Lana. “Lana is no longer employed here,” she responds coolly, before hanging up. What? It feels like yesterday that I was in the store watching Lana pull gowns for clients—although the truth hits me: More than a month has passed.

  Continuing my search, I catch a glance of myself in the mirror: I haven’t changed my shirt in days, my hair is an oil slick, and I realize my most recent meal was three grape popsicles. All of this is exacerbated by the sense that a shape-shifting monster is nipping at my heels, making my heart race and my breath shallow. I need to go out—now.

  The corner shop charges a criminal three-fifty for a small coffee, but I cough it up just to temporarily feel like a functional member of society. All around me people are tap-tap-tapping at laptops, perhaps writing books that will betray their loved ones or emailing inappropriate missives to their exes or their exes’ new partners. I can be one of the tap-tap-tappers, too. I take out my phone and, first, I apply for a new credit card. Then, I scroll through pages of unopened emails and unanswered texts. They’re mostly from my mother. There’s one surprisingly tasteful note from my old coworker Melinda Lowe, expressing regret at how things ended between us. Kirsten, bless her, has called and left me messages every day, undeterred by my lack of response. I text her now:

  Should we throw Sam a baby shower?

  Within moments she responds: YES! And a wedding shower for you!

  Sam, on the other hand, has reached out just a handful of times since I told her about my firing. At first she seemed worried, but then quickly slipped into annoyance when I clearly wasn’t following her step-by-step plan for how to get my life back together. The last text she sent was a couple of weeks ago: I guess you’ll be in touch when you’re ready …

  I share the shower idea with her now, and she replies, Welcome back, asshole. I’ve put on 10 pounds since I saw you last. Ixnay on the shower. Let’s do a trip instead.

  I text Leo a simple, Hey.

  He pings back, Sorry I’ve been MIA, sis. I haven’t noticed, just as he clearly hasn’t noticed my absence. Life has been crazy since Lana returned to work. I remember Ingrid’s curt dismissal on the phone. Hm. Leo texts again: Hang soon? I propose a few times, but Leo’s end goes silent.

  Then there’s my mother, whom I’ve been trying to tell about my firing for weeks, but it’s like there’s cotton stuffed down my throat. Her emails about wedding plans have become practically breezy, mentioning John this and John that, to which I’ve barely responded. I brace myself and dial her number.

  “Molly!” she exclaims. “I was just digging my skates out of the basement. John’s taking me down to the lake, now that the ice is thick enough. Romantic, right?” For a moment I forget to breathe, but my mom doesn’t seem to notice. “If you get a call from the E.R., you’ll know I’m in a full-body cast. Also, we got a waffle maker and I’ve been experimenting with different fillings. Today we had strawberry-ricotta. It’s a kick!”


  “You two are already investing in appliances together?” I snap. I’m irrationally furious at my mother for going on about herself and not asking about me, for not intuiting that I’ve lost my way, that I’m falling deeper and deeper into debt, and that Gabe and I are on seriously shaky ground. So, I lash out more: “My god, has John already proposed? Should we be planning a joint wedding?”

  I can hear my heart pounding through my mom’s long pause. My jaw is a vise. “Molly, I know it’s new for me to be dating.” She’s speaking to me like I’m a child, which both irritates me and loosens something ropey inside of me. “It doesn’t mean I don’t care about Daddy just as much as I always have.”

  At the mention of the name only I used for my father, tears spring from my eyes and trickle down my cheeks. I attempt a blasé sigh. “Whatever, I have bigger things to worry about than who you’re eating waffles with.” My nonchalance is unconvincing even to me.

  “Molly, are you okay? Please tell me. Please.”

  The words spill out of me: “Oh Mom, Gabe’s becoming this big hotshot with his book, and he doesn’t have any time for me, and everyone thinks his relationship with his ex is the most fascinating thing ever, and meanwhile, I’m at home all day in my sweatpants.”

  “Honey, slow down. What’s going on?”

  I tell her I lost my job. The knot inside me slackens another notch. (Though I can’t tell her I’ve run out of money and am deep in debt—she’d want to swoop in and save me, even if it meant cutting off her gas and living on ramen for a month.) “And something bad is going on with Leo and Lana.” I realize I’ve been angry about this too, another problem I half-believe my mother should have discovered and solved already. “And all you seem to give a shit about is screwing John the jolly innkeeper!”

  “Molly, my love. First of all, John and I have only made love once.”

  “Mom!” I cry.

  She starts giggling, and it makes me giggle, too. Suddenly it all seems so ridiculous. I know I’m being a brat. I apologize, and when we hang up I email her a peace offering: Gabe’s recipe for chocolate-chip waffles.