Did I mention that I hate my job?
Sometimes, when I walk into the offices of the Philadelphia Journal, I imagine I’m Milton from Office Space, mumbling about burning the building down.
“Morning, Carter.” My boss, Mike, combs his fingers through his mustache as he not-so-subtly checks out my ass when I walk by his office.
I skirt to my desk, awkwardly bending my body and legs while trying to be as obscured from his view as possible. Maybe if I walk right along the wall, his creeper eyes won’t see me.
Mike has been the editor-in-chief since I started working here, and has worn that pedophile facial hair on his pudgy upper lip for probably twice as long. He’s an asshole, makes sexually explicit comments to his female staff, delegates most of his work to his department heads, and I’m not sure why they keep him around still. Oh yeah, because his family owns a share of the damn paper and he’ll never be fired.
Cue my enormous eye roll and huffy sigh.
I set my purse, the violet fringe one I found in a vintage shop that had no brand label, down on my desk and boot up my computer. Savoring that first sip of coffee, I close my eyes as I sit down, trying to get my blood pressure to a sane level before all of the annoyances of the day put me into near cardiac arrest.
I shuffle through my emails, a Greek yogurt sitting on the corner of my desk, discarded, as I shake my head at all of the stupidity in my inbox.
And just as I sigh to myself, about to dive in to the mound of shit I have to accomplish today, I hear it.
That nails-on-a-chalkboard voice.
“Good morning, coworkers!” It shouts across the office, peppy and too sugary-sweet for eight a.m. on a Tuesday.
There are some people in life you’re just not going to get along with. And if you’re me, that is most people. I just see right through all of the bullshit, the playing dumb, the fake nice that a lot of other people don’t mind. It irks me, sets me off. I think more people should be like me, the world would be a hell of a lot more honest.
“Hey, Erin. Oh my God, I think you got some coffee on your pants.”
Katie Raymer walked by my desk, and I already wanted to throat punch her. The office suck up, she had bleached blond hair that was fried to a crisp, wore shirts a size too small so that the men would stare at her boobs, and couldn’t write for shit. Even though she ran the paper’s lifestyle section, which was the job I originally asked for when I came on five years ago.
She was my work nemesis, and it pissed me off even more that she was all, “bless your heart” to my face. Like the pants comment she just made? She was kindly trying to tell me I had a stain. She was trying to point out that I looked like a mess, and that she would never be as irresponsible as me. It was all subtext with people like Katie.
“Katie.” I nodded, not even looking up from my computer.
“You know, it’s so funny. Last night, I tried this new face mask. And I thought it wouldn’t work, and it made my face absolutely flawless. Like, how good is my luck? And I got it for fifty percent off at the store.”
She launches into a discussion no one is having with her, that no one asked her about. And why does she always try to make her good fortune sound like a negative, as if we should commiserate with her about having gorgeous skin and full pockets?
Maybe I’m just crabby because I’m getting my period. My cramps have been at near-volcanic eruption status, and I can’t stop munching on chocolate covered peanuts.
“Awesome,” I mumble, trying to get her away from my desk.
“I also was watching that new reality show about the wives and girlfriends of athletes, and like … I realized that I probably will be one of those someday. You know, with Hans playing hockey in that amateur league around here. And like, am I going to have to be one of those women who doesn’t work? Because being a makeup contour specialist is not a job.”
Her hands are on her hip as she rambles, both bragging and offending large groups of people, and I want to throw my hot coffee on her. No one makes me as ragey as this bitch.
“Mike, let me tell you about this piece. You’ll die!” She stalks off, not even realizing I barely acknowledged her verbal diarrhea, off to flirt our boss into giving her more vacation time.
If there was anything I hated in this world, it was brown-nosers. Just kidding, I hated a lot of things. But brown-nosers were at the top of the list. I didn’t get anywhere by sucking up or networking. I would rather put the hard work in, keep my head down, and be rewarded when the quality of my work shined through. Those who obtained their status by stepping on the backs of others and not putting in the effort … that really pissed me off.
And I wasn’t just exaggerating when it came to her. She constantly cut me down in editor meetings, once stole a story right out from under me when there was no way to prove I’d done the research first, and she’d even eaten my lunch out of the fridge once. She claimed it had been an accident, but no way did you mistake two spicy tuna rolls if you hadn’t brought them yourself.
The only thing that got me through was periodically checking my blog and Instagram stats, new followers, and if any companies had direct messaged me trying to partner or work on a project. I really needed to get out of here, and I would.
Eventually.
When my will to follow my dreams without a safety net won over my fears and need for a steady paycheck.
Eleven
Erin
Thursday night sees me lying in bed, naked, watching HGTV and eating cheddar flavored crackers shaped like fish.
So, in essence, I am both an eighty-year-old and a five-year-old all at the same time. I’m boring, watching DIY shows … but am also chowing down on the same snack my mom used to put in my lunchbox during elementary school.
My period swept in yesterday with a fucking vengeance, as if Aunt Flow was extra mad this month that I wasn’t using my ovaries, uterus and all of the other parts for what they were intended for.
The couple on House Hunters was about to pick one of the three houses they’d seen, and I was getting bored. And full, my snacking monotonous more than for hunger now. But I mean, did I ever snack because I was hungry? And did I ever stop because I wasn’t anymore? The answer was a no.
Picking up my phone from the table beside my bed, I opened up the text conversation I had with Reese in my messages.
Erin: So, how was saving babies today?
It took a minute for him to respond, and I scratched my boob, the skin itchy in the prickly heat of early summer. I was definitely a hot child in the city, or whatever they said.
Reese: Ultimately, boring. Snuggled cute newborns, helped postpartum mothers. You know, all in a day’s work.
Erin: Did you push one of epi?
Reese: *eye roll emoji* I love that you think my job is just plugging heart arteries in elevators and having great hair to go with my scrubs.
Erin: Grey’s Anatomy basically makes me a doctor, or didn’t you know.
I giggle to myself, because I have teased Reese constantly throughout his post-college career. I ask him any and every situation I’ve ever seen on the popular ABC show, and if he’s ever experienced it. And he usually just shakes his head at me.
Reese: Whatever, nerd. What’re you doing, anyway? Eating Goldfish in bed while watching House Hunters?
He knew me too well. I brushed the Goldfish dust off my fingers and went to respond. Except, when I did, I fumbled my phone, a series of actions set off by my clumsiness.
In the flash of a second, my naked chest was illuminated, the flash on my selfie camera going off. I grab for the phone, the corner of it hitting my open eye and I let out a howl, the feel of it foreign and somewhat stinging. Holding my right eye, I snatch the phone off my comforter, where it bounced and landed.
And howl again when I pick it up and see just what I’ve done.
A seedy, close up shot of my right boob, and part of my left, sent directly to Reese. Fuck. My. Life.
I wish, in that moment, that I could unsend a text message.
That I was crafty enough to hack a network, or dashboard, or whatever kind of shit needed to be hacked to not allow Reese to see that picture.
Fuck. He probably had already seen it.
An accidental tit pic … who the hell does that even happen to? Me, that’s who. My fucking luck, I was that creepy guy on the Internet who sent random people shots of his dick. Except that this was a shot of my nipples.
Sheer hot mortification runs through me as I see those three tiny bubbles pop up. I want to look away, but I can’t, my train wreck laid out there for both Reese and I to see.
It’s not even a good picture of my rack, my boobs are all lopsided from lying down, and strands of my hair are caught in my armpit.
What is he going to say? Should I type something preemptively? Maybe say that it’s a shot of someone else and I was totally pranking him? Dear lord, I wanted this panic fluttering through my stomach to go away.
Reese: Well, damn, if you wanted to marry me so bad you should have just said so. No need to convince me with sexting. Even if it’s not even good sexting.
Erin: Ha-ha, jokes on you. That’s not me! Gotcha.
Reese: Peas, I’m not a moron …
Dammit. Dammit. At least he could joke about it. But now, after we’d gotten that awkward kiss out of the way and had settled into being best friends who lived in the same city … now I had gone and sent him my boobs.
I picked up the phone, embarrassed but not wanting this to turn into anything weird again. With a wave of embarrassed nausea, I tap the screen to call Reese.
He picks up on the second ring. “Is this a booty call? Because I’ve seen the goods, and listen, the lighting was a little dark if you’re going to put that up on the blog …
“Shut up! I didn’t mean to, okay? My fingers had Goldfish dust on them, I fumbled my phone …”
“Sureeee, we’ll go with that.” Reese cackles on the other end. “Do you text all of your friends pictures of your boobs? Trying to figure out if you should invest in new bras? I’ll tell ya, I think you’re good there.”
“Oh my God, I’m going to murder you. Stop it now, I just … wanted to call to tell you it was an accident and that you should delete this moment from your brain, and we can go on being best friends and making fun of each other about which house the couple picks at the end of House Hunters.”
I can still hear him laughing as he answers. “Fine, fine. But it’s going to take one of those memory eraser pens, like in Men in Black, for me to forget this one.”
“Good night, Reese Maximus.” I said his middle name, a jab because I knew he hated it.
“Hey, not fair!” He starts to argue with me, but I hang up, not wanting to keep this bickering going.
Flopping back on my bed, I cover my eyes in exhausted embarrassment.
Clearly, I needed to put a lock on my cell camera or something, to avoid situations like this. I’d certainly learned my lesson.
No texting and Goldfishing.
Twelve
Reese
My new apartment was a full-on bachelor pad.
A black leather couch, beer mugs where the drinking glasses were supposed to sit in the kitchen cabinets, two stools tucked under the counter instead of a kitchen table, and I’d only forgone the pool table because Erin had given me the death glare.
For two years, I’d been on and off living with Renée, who did the decorating. Before that, I just let whatever girl I was dating take over the apartment I’d been renting. By the time I moved home to Philly, I’d donated most of the furniture, lamps and wall art to a women’s shelter. They’d been appreciative, but gave me a funny look as I dropped off all of the feminine decor.
“Seriously? Your shower is so dirty, you should talk to management by the way, and all you care about is the TV?” Erin walked around the place, inspecting it with a container of Clorox wipes in hand.
I fiddled with the cable box, smacking it like that would actually get it to work. “The baseball game is on in an hour.”
“So what?” She pounces on the fridge, opening it and wrinkling her nose.
I thought that my explanation would be sufficient, but apparently, she did not understand that television was the most important part of a man’s move-in process. “Never mind. So, when are you moving in?”
For a few weeks now, I’d been badgering her intermittently about the pact. In my hotel room at the Residence Inn, which I’d been shelling out money for until I could find a decent place to rent, we’d spent more time together then we had in years. It was incredible, and everything that I’d forgotten I needed just clicked into place.
“Um, try never. I won’t be your next keeper.” She scowled, cleaning a vegetable drawer she’d removed from the fridge.
“My keeper? Do tell. Sounds kinky.” I tried to program the remote again, but it wasn’t working.
“You’re constantly rebounding, Reese. You move from one relationship to the next because you can’t possibly be single.” I’d forgotten how blunt Erin could be.
They stung, her words. “That’s not true …”
She cocks an eyebrow at me, an arm moving to rest a hand on her hip in a motion of attitude. “You probably didn’t even pick out the pair of pants you’re wearing.”
I looked down, noticing the navy joggers I wore. That my girlfriend before Renée, Denise, had bought for me.
“Sure, maybe I am a bit codependent.” Erin raises her eyebrows. “Okay, a lot. But it’s not because I don’t live my own life. It’s because I like living it with someone else. I enjoy leaving decisions up to the couple, having to talk and compromise. That’s what a relationship, and companionship, is. Getting joy out of living with someone else, out of merging your two lives together. We can’t all be self-sufficient robots like you, peas.”
Erin points a finger at me, her brown eyes turning a midnight black with her annoyance. They always grew darker when she was mad.
“Don’t start that peas and carrots stuff with me, Reese. I just think, it would be good for you to be single for a while.”
I continue to try to hook my TV up. “And I think, that we should honor our pact and get married. You need to know what it’s like to have to rely on someone. I think that would be good for you. Hell, we’re already best friends. We know how it would work.”
Erin’s eyes don’t lose their stormy look. “You’re insane. Clinically, I believe. I think we need to admit you. Does your new job have a psych floor we can put you on?”
“Come on, peas. It’ll be just like in Gump. Friends forever, stood by each other for years, harbored feelings. And then, in the end, they fall deeply in romantic love. Plus, I’ve seen your boobs now. Even if accidentally.”
I won’t lie, she has a great rack. And I’ll never let her live down sending me an accidental tit pic.
She harrumphs at me. “Except that you and I never harbored feelings. Except those of annoyance. You annoy me like a little brother.”
That one stings. Is she lying, denying? Or does Erin really feel that way? Because … I’ve always had feelings for her. Ones I’ve rarely acted on, and never dared to tell her about. There were only two times I came close; a New Year’s kiss hours after midnight, and in a hot tub on her twenty-first birthday in Atlantic City. Bottles of champagne were present for both, as was disappointment. We’d never talked about either.
I brush it off again now, because what the hell would she say if I told her I’d loved her for the better half of my life? “I’m not your little brother.”
Erin laughs, mocking me in a singsong voice. “Younger by two weeks and five days. I’ll never let you forget that.”
“I’m a responsible fucking man, don’t forget that. And you’d be lucky to have me.”
“You nurse sick babies back to health for a living. Of course you’re a man. And a catch,” Erin admits in defeat, but shrugs me off.
“So, then, why won’t you honor our pact? We’ve already established I’m a catch, a pretty damn good-looking one if I do
say so myself. I can take care of kids, so I’d be a great dad. And it’d be better than falling in love, because we would be partners. Best friends.”
“Do I have some sort of Cinderella-esque midnight expiration date stamped on my forehead? That was a pinky promise we made when we were fifteen!”
I catch a lock of her long corn silk hair in between my fingers. “If you don’t marry me by the time you’re thirty, you might turn into a pumpkin.”
Erin’s eyes level me. “I think that only happens to pure as snow virgins. And I think we both know that I am not of that variety.”
My blood boils at the same time it heats; both with lust for her and jealousy that other men have been there before me.
“And I think we both know that I could give you so much better than you’ve ever had.” I turn on the charm, knowing that she’s always had a weak spot for my dimple.
If only I could take her in my hands right now, mold them to her body and explore every dip and crevice. That kiss has haunted me, for weeks I’ve been a starved man. I’ve thought of little else when I lay my head down on the pillow, staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling.
“Who needs a man? I can masturbate and change a lightbulb by myself.” Erin’s voice is low and her eyes are concentrated on my dimple, and then flick to my lips.
“Can I watch?” We’re centimeters apart now, the gravitational pull of our attraction, which she won’t admit is there, bringing us close.
“The masturbation or the lightbulb?” Her voice is a hair above a whisper.
I shrug. “Either. I love a woman who knows how to be handy.”
My voice conveys the double entendre, and my hands shake as I try not to touch her. I’ve already kissed her once without permission. She has to be the one to make the next move. I can only coax her so far, push her so much without revealing exactly what I was trying to do. I knew Erin, and she had to be the one to make the decision. If I forced the issue, she’d bolt.
Save the Date Page 5