Seven Books for Seven Lovers

by Molly Harper, Stephanie Haefner, Liora Blake, Gabra Zackman, Andrea Laurence, Colette Auclair

  I just know it’s not him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  You’ve Got Nerve

  BRADLEY WAS GONE WHEN I woke on the couch. He left a note saying he loved me, that he was sorry, and please reconsider. That was yesterday. And that’s where I stayed. On the couch. Today, I’ve ordered pizza, went through two boxes of tissues, watched various rom-coms, and channel surfed.

  I’m thinking I may end up alone. An image of my future little girl waving a you’re fired sign plagues me. She doesn’t have to fire me . . . I never even got the job.

  Ellie made me promise I’d do a girls’ night when she dropped me off the other night and she won’t let me out of it. In fact, she’s here getting ready even though we don’t have to leave till seven, and it’s only three. All I really want to do is go back to the couch.

  I’ve managed to get half dressed. My hair’s set in hot rollers and my makeup’s done, but I’m still in sweats and slippers. I don’t know where we’re going or what to wear. At least I know what not to after two hours of back-to-back episodes on TLC.

  “I like it, it’s pretty,” I say to Ellie as she spins, modeling her dress across my living room before disappearing back into the bathroom.

  Slumping at my desk, I scroll Facebook to wait. I was half hoping Ellie would’ve called with a location, saying she’d meet me there. Only instead of her, it would be . . . but, whatever. Not going to happen. He isn’t here, he hasn’t called, he hasn’t done anything except disappear again.

  Yeah, the movie moments are over. The credits have rolled, the ending sucked, and Roger Ebert gave it a staggering thumbs-down.

  Noticing a new friend request at the top, I click. NY152? Who the hell is NY152? My mouse hovers to see the icon photo, but it’s only the generic avatar. Clicking on it to decline, I notice the attached message.

  Dear ShopGirl,

  I like to begin my notes as if we’re already in the middle of a conversation. I hope you consider continuing this exchange. What will you say, I wonder? I’ll be online, impatiently waiting for those three little words, you’ve got mail. Or, in this instance, you have a message.

  Oh my gosh. It’s Shane. It’s You’ve Got Mail.

  I read it again, my lips forming each word. Curiosity digs inside like a spur. Clicking ACCEPT, I can see it’s a brand-new account. I’m NY152’s only friend.

  In the movie, Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks don’t know each other’s real identity. They chat about basic everyday stuff. Nothing heavy. No big questions.

  I have questions. But I’m not ready to ask.

  I select the message icon and message link. I bite my nail and concentrate, trying to remember the movie scenes. He talks about his dog and New York in the fall . . . what does she say? I Google the movie script to get the perfect line.

  Dear NY152,

  You wonder what I will say? Sometimes I wonder about my life. Do I do it because I like it, or because I haven’t been brave? I really don’t want an answer. I’m just sending it out into the void.

  I stare at the screen for a few minutes without sending it through. I can be brave, I can do this. Click.

  Maybe I could be brave with everything. Maybe it’s about time. Like dealing with my mom, my family . . . I tried with Tonya. I should try again. Force a confrontation. Then I could let it go. Maybe.

  I suck a deep breath in through my nose and lean back in the chair. “Ellie? I need to use your Facebook account . . . as you. Is that okay?”

  Ellie pops out from the bathroom. “Why?”

  “If I go over to Tonya’s she’ll just lock me out or not answer the door, but if I draw her out as you, then I can ambush her.”

  Ellie folds her arms.

  “Just to talk. I need to have it out with her once and for all.” I tilt my head. “Please.”

  With a nod, she leans over and logs in. I select messages, click new, and begin typing a message to Tonya, as Ellie, under her watchful eye. The computer chimes.

  TONYA: Hey, Ellie-bellie.

  I narrow my eyes. “Oh, she’ll talk to you, of course.”

  “What are you doing exactly?”

  “You’ll see.” I resettle on the chair, leaving her a corner to sit beside me, and start pounding on the keys.

  ELLIE-BELL: I know what you did.

  TONYA: Shocker, Einstein. Everyone knows. Bradley yelled it out.

  I type faster, harder, and hit ENTER.

  ELLIE-BELL: I saw you with him. It’s NOT Bradley’s baby, is it?

  Return. Pound, pound, pound, enter.

  ELLIE-BELL: Meet me at Safia at five. We need to talk.

  Ellie scootches herself closer. “What the hell did you see? I thought you were home all night?”

  I ignore her. My eyes are fixed on the screen in anticipation of Tonya’s response. My fingers are ready for an all-out type-off. At the bottom of the chat box it says in gray letters, Tonya is typing . . . it’s flashing, taunting me. My heart’s keeping time.

  Oh my God, what is she typing?

  Wait, now it’s gone. I lean into the screen to check if what I’m seeing is right. The green light is off. I click in the chat box and the Facebook message says Tonya isn’t on chat, but you can still send a message across the top.

  What? Oh, I’m sending a message. She will get the message. I pound the keys.

  Tonya, I know you’re still pregnant and it’s not Bradley’s. And I know whose it is. I also know what you’re up to. Be at the office at five or everyone else will know, too.

  I’m actually not 100 percent sure of anything. But I have my suspicions. I grab Ellie’s arm and my bag. “You’re driving, let’s go.”

  “NO, LEAVE THE LIGHTS OFF,” I say to Ellie as we enter the agency.

  Ellie deactivates the alarm and we scurry inside like mice.

  “If I’m right . . .” I look at the wall clock. “She’ll be here in less than ten minutes. I need you to get her to admit what’s really going on.” I don’t tell Ellie about my full conspiracy theory. I’m just not sure.

  It might be too crazy.

  Ellie shakes her head. “We already know what’s going on. Two guys, one was Bradley, she’s pregnant.”

  “Just get her talking. Please. Then I’ll confront her . . . and I can just put it behind me, okay?” Or put it on Facebook if she doesn’t admit to Bradley and everyone else involved in what’s really going on. I plan on recording her full confession.

  “Fine, I’m all for closure, but if we go to jail, your mug shot’s gonna suck. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

  I’m still in slippers, sweats, and have a head full of rollers. Whatever. I drumroll the desk and glance at the clock. Shit, she lives like five minutes away. “We need to hide!”

  We both swivel around frantically as if someone just called, Ready or not, here I come.

  “Wait.” Ellie stops, confused. “Why do I hide if I’m meeting her?”

  “Because I don’t want her to know you’re here yet. She needs to be inside, away from the door. No escape.” Okay, where? Potted plants, coat rack, desks. Maggie’s desk. I could hide under it, since the panels reach the floor.

  “Bathroom! Go to the bathroom,” I say, pointing her toward it. “Yeah . . . that’ll work. This will work. Go, go. Go.”

  Ellie runs down the hall frazzled, heels clacking. I slide Maggie’s chair out, it rolls back with a mad spin. I lunge-step, snatch the chair, and duck under the desk, knocking my head. A roller pops and hangs half-free.

  I crouch low and line my eye up with the crack to peer out. I try each eye. Left, right, left, right. Yeah, I can see. This is good. Now I wait.

  I wake up my phone so I’m ready to record. I have a message. It’s from NY152.

  My heart’s thumping wildly. I scan it quickly.

  Dear ShopGirl,

  Do you ever feel the worst version of yourself? Someone provokes you and instead of handling it with any semblance of class, you react. And react badly?

  A nervous laugh escapes. They’re l
ines from You’ve Got Mail, but the timing’s ironic. I’m under a desk in curlers about to . . . wait, what am I doing?

  I need to confront her, not jump up from the desk like a jack-in-the-box.

  Swinging out, I hit my head, the loose roller pops and rolls. A hair coil springs wild. There’s a jingle. I freeze. Are those keys? Keys in the door! I sprint to the bathroom at record speed, slamming the door into Ellie with a thud.

  “Ow, shit! What the hell?”

  “Shhhhhhhhh!” I whisper-shout, waving my hands in her face and spraying spittle. “She’s here!”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “To tell you she’s here! Now, go!”

  Ellie’s at the door, peering through the inch-wide opening.

  “I hear a voice in the main room,” Ellie whispers and swings the door wider as I creep over. “Who’s she calling for?”

  “You. I was you, remember? Now, goooooo.” More spittle.

  “Wait.” Ellie says too loud, spinning and hitting me on the forehead. Another curler springs loose and lands on the floor with a clink, clink, roll.

  “Shhhhhhhhh,” we both say, smacking each other with wild hands.

  I practically push her out the door.

  “Tonya? Sorry, was in the restroom. I didn’t think you were here yet.” Ellie’s voice fades in and out as the door swings shut.

  I reopen it so I can hear. But I need to see. I flatten myself against the doorframe, slowly push it wider, and squeeze through.

  “Well, you wanted to talk, so talk.” Tonya already sounds aggravated.

  “Um, well . . . I wanted to talk to you because . . . I know about Bradley and the other guy.”

  Yes. Good, Ellie, good. Flush with the wall, I pad toward the main room, two springy locks of hair bouncing along with each step. Easy . . . I need to go slow.

  Tonya huff-snorts like a dragon. “I don’t think you know anything, Ellie.”

  “Whatever, Tonya, I know you screwed Kenzi over.”

  “And?”

  Bitch! I click RECORD on my phone and, using my arm like a periscope, wind it around the corner. I can’t see anything. Let’s hope they don’t see my arm.

  “And I know there are two guys, and I don’t think Bradley knows about the other one.”

  Yes! Perfect!

  The front door chimes. Wait, no, she’s leaving?

  “She contacted you, too?” Tonya asks, surprised.

  Contacted who? Who’s here? I lean out a little, straining to hear, needing to see . . .

  I position the side of my head past the corner’s edge. A little more and . . . a curler pops loose with a snap and lands on the floor with a clink, clink, roll.

  Three pairs of eyes turn in my direction. My hair antennas wave hello.

  It is him. The baby daddy.

  Clive.

  “Kenz?” Tonya’s eyes bulge. “What the hell is going on?”

  Let’s get ready to rumble. Game on. Party time. Shake your groove thing. Whatever. Here we go. I straighten and strut into the room. “You. Are. Busted.” I use the phone to punctuate each word. “Why don’t you admit it, Tonya. The baby, more than likely, is his—”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say it like that,” Clive says, hands in his pockets, looking chastened.

  “What? Whoa, whoa, whoooa . . .” Ellie’s dumbfounded, her jaw is slack, palms up in the air, looking from me to Tonya and then . . . Ellie gasps. “You’re the baby daddy?”

  “You’re just now getting this? Seriously?” I flip the corkscrew curl from my eye, so Ellie can fully appreciate my mock sarcasm. Then, lifting the phone in the air, I add, “Here’s the whole ball of wax, ya ready?” Ball of wax? Who the hell am I? Who says that?

  Ellie nods, eyes Cheerios round.

  I take a step toward Tonya and jab the phone in her direction. “She’s a lying, shitty excuse for a friend. I mean, really, Tonya? First with Shane back in—”

  “OH MY GOD!” She throws back her head with crazy eyes. “Are you kidding me? That was forever ago. Who cares?”

  “I care! And what about now? I was engaged . . . and you . . . and now you’re pregnant?” I tip my head toward Clive. “And this one? He’s married. He’s your boss. Could you be any more pathetic?”

  Tonya takes a step back toward Maggie’s desk. I push forward, the phone aimed like a deadly weapon.

  “Did you threaten to tell his wife or something? Is that why Safia’s struggling? He’s putting money in your pocket to keep you quiet, or is it out of guilt?” And out comes my theory.

  “Oh my God, Tonya, really?” Ellie’s mouth is completely unhinged. “You would really do that?” She looks like we just told her Santa was a farce.

  With a dramatic flip of my hair coils, I step forward. “I’m pretty sure Mr. Can’t-keep-it-in-his-pants bought her silence. Am I right? Am. I. Right?”

  “Really, Clive?” Now the Easter Bunny has been debunked.

  Tonya’s butt bumps the desk. Nowhere to run. Cornered like a rat, and I’m only getting started. They’re not denying anything. Oh. My. God. I was right?

  “Get that thing out of my face.” Tonya swipes at the phone, prompting a game of keep-away.

  I hold it high, then far right, now behind my back. Her long arms wind around me and knock it loose. It’s flying. It chimes in midair.

  Tonya jabs a finger at my chest. “Listen, Medusa, I’ve had enough of this shit.”

  Oh no she didn’t. “You’ve had enough? You?”

  Ellie’s got the phone. She repositions it between both hands, walking sidesaddle, hunched over. She aims it at Clive, then us. I’m not sure it’s recording anymore.

  “You know what?” I force Tonya back against the desk again. “Clive was going to fire me, did you know that? Yeah, he said we’re having financial trouble.”

  Tonya’s eyes are red and glossy, like she’s holding back tears.

  I keep going. “I don’t really care what agreement you guys have. I don’t. But why didn’t you ever tell me you and Bradley had a thing in the first place? You said you dated someone that used to work here. Not the same thing, Tonya!” My voice cracks with emotion. All the pent-up hurt is hanging on each word. “And why sleep with him now? How could you do that to me, Tonya? Or even to him? Why?”

  Clive takes a step toward me.

  “Stay back!” Ellie’s in between us. “I mean it.”

  What’s she gonna do, chuck the phone at him?

  Clive’s hands are up in surrender. He arches his brows to Ellie, then looks back to me. “What are you talking about? What’s going on with Bradley?”

  My mouth drops. “He doesn’t know? Oh my God, Tonya. Really?” Now I’m shouting. This is too much. I turn to Clive. “What, you thought Bradley just knew about you two? About her being pregnant?” I swing back to Tonya. “Oh shit! You don’t know who the father is, do you?” I almost feel sorry for her. Almost. “Clive, Tonya’s also sleeping with Bradley. So yeah, the baby might be his.”

  Cupid just got shot by his own arrow. Clive steps back from the impact. I almost expect to hear the Scooby Doo line: She would have gotten away with it, too, if it weren’t for those meddling kids. Instead, a spray of papers flies into the air as Tonya wipes her hand across the desk behind her and grabs a . . . metal bin of neon thumbtacks?

  “What are you gonna do with that?” I ask with a shrill of hilarity.

  One flip and they spray out at me. I’ve been tacked! Clive is yelling. Ellie’s recording. If this ends up on Facebook, I’ll . . . I’ll . . .

  Tonya flips more paper at me.

  “Oh!” I swipe up Maggie’s bowl of scented potpourri and fling a handful at her. “You’re the worst friend anyone could ever have.” I’m circling, every step on tacks and dried-whatever-this-crap-is.

  Tonya’s face is lit with rage. “What’s so great about you, Kenz? Why do they always want you?”

  “What? If you had a real thing for Bradley . . .” I flick some more. “Then why’d you never say anything
?” Even more. The smell of lemongrass fills the air.

  “Because he didn’t want me like that, okay? Happy?” Her finger’s pointed in my face. “But you show up and it’s all serious and fucking flowers and rings. You he wants to marry!”

  I stop. “What? Oh. My. God! You’re jealous?” She’s jealous of me? “That’s why with Shane, too, isn’t it? And now Bradley?” I clench a huge handful and lob it at her. Hard.

  “You don’t deserve him!” Tonya screams. “Everyone thinks you’re so special—”

  “What?” Turning the bowl, I shake out a spray of sprigs at her.

  “Stop it . . .” Her hands reach for the bowl. “Stop flinging that!”

  I don’t. I hurl the last few bits.

  She lunges, catching the bowl’s lip, causing it to spin from my hand. It whirls in the air and lands with a loud crash in a thousand pieces.

  Just like our friendship.

  Just like my heart.

  “You’ve got some nerve.” I look to Clive and say quietly, “I’ll be working off-site to finish up my accounts.” I shoot a look at Ellie to signal Let’s Go and crunch through the mess toward the door.

  This puts the end in friend.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Say Something

  ELLIE AND I ARE driving home on the main road, ten minutes from my apartment. I pull up my slipper and start plucking neon thumbtacks from the sole, grateful it’s thick. I’m agitated and angry and—

  “If it makes you feel any better, I’ve always hated Tonya a little,” Ellie says, her face crinkled in distaste.

  I give her an appreciative half-smile. Ellie’s the best. She’s the one who calls me, asks if I’m okay, and does things with me. In my heart, I always knew Tonya was just a frenemy anyway, a frenemy of the worst kind.

  I plop my foot down and lean back. “I’m going to look for a new job.”

  Her eyes dart over and her hands squeeze around the wheel. “Well, then I am, too. Yeah, we’ll look together.”

  I blink back tears and nod. “Do you mind if we stay in? I’m not really up to going anywhere tonight.” My heart plummets. “And tomorrow’s Ren’s mini–baby shower slash engag—shit.” I choke on the words. “Yeah, I just wanna stay in, okay?”