Love in Transit

by Jana Aston

  My makeup is done via a compact mirror and finished before I reach my stop. Then I walk another five blocks to my office. In Manhattan it’s called walking but anywhere else that pace would be considered a jog. I check my phone when I’m a block away—the building is in my sights—and grin. I made it.

  I’ve even got just enough time to grab a coffee from the little shop located next door to my building, as long as they don’t have a line. They only charge a dollar for a coffee to go, which even I can afford, and when I approach the door and see no line I’m tempted to click my sneaker-clad heels together. No line! I’m still getting my morning coffee! Which really makes all the difference, you know? When I don’t have time to stop or the line is too long it throws off my whole morning. I need that cup like a baby needs a pacifier. It’s like a cup of zen to get me through my morning, no matter what the boss throws at me.

  See, today is totally my day because life is all what you make of it. I could be pissed off about oversleeping, but no. I’m going to call that sleeping in and still making it to work on time. A total win, yay me, I think as I double-check the time and reach for the door handle of the coffee shop.

  The door doesn’t budge because it’s locked. My brain registers this at the same time it registers the orange eight-by-ten sticker stuck to the door. The one labeled New York City Health Department with a big check mark next to ‘closed for health code violations’ which cannot be possible because I just got coffee here yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that.

  Wait.

  Oh, shit. I get coffee here every day.

  At the place closed for health code violations. Well, that’s great.

  Walking next door, I swipe my badge to get past security while wondering if coffee can be contaminated. It can, right? Like bacteria in the machines or something? Never mind, I’m fine. My stomach is okay. I think. I might need to talk myself out of phantom hypochondriac stomach issues, but I’m probably fine.

  I need a refund on this day and it’s not even nine AM.

  I sigh before giving myself a pep talk. It’s fine, Lauren. This day can only get better. Nowhere to go but up, blah blah. I work in marketing, so I know it’s all in how I spin it and I’ve already determined that today is a good day for a good day, so it will be. I’m going to have a good day if it fucking kills me.

  Chapter 3

  It might just kill me.

  “You want me to do what?” I glance across my boss’s desk in shock. Surely I am misunderstanding something because there is no possible way I am hearing this correctly.

  “I want you to go down to Times Square and pass out some flyers, Lauren. Was that unclear?”

  I hate the way she says my name. I don’t even like hearing my name come out of her mouth, but the tone she says it in makes it all the worse. And she’s always adding it to sentences needlessly to intimidate me. Normal people don’t repeat your name to you in conversation because it’s unnecessary.

  “Did you have a late night? You seem a little off your game today, Lauren. Has the weekend started early for you?”

  See what I mean?

  She smiles when she says it but she doesn’t mean it. Because she’s a bitch. That’s really all there is to that.

  “No, my weekend hasn’t started early. I’m just a little confused about why tourists in Times Square would be interested in a sale at the Budget Bridal Stop in Brooklyn. But I have some ideas about how we could better reach the target audience,” I start, but that’s as far as I get because she cuts me off.

  “I didn’t ask for your thoughts, Lauren. If you’re interested in a career here you need to learn how to follow direction. The team can only have one leader and that’s me.”

  Sometimes I wonder if she was a bitchy baby. I think she probably was.

  “Now I understand this probably isn’t the most challenging task you’ve been given and I can see you’re not excited about it, but it needs to be done and I hope I can trust you to handle it like a professional.”

  I swallow the words ‘fuck you,’ and place a fake smile on my face as I stand.

  “You’ll need to change here and then have the car service drop you off in Times Square. The case of flyers is much too heavy to walk with.” She adds a big smile that anyone else would think was genuine but I know better.

  “Sure thing,” I call out as I slide the garment bag off the top of her office door and fold it over my arm as I prepare to leave her office.

  “And this shouldn’t take more than two hours, Lauren. Please don’t waste the entire day on this, okay?”

  I bite my lip and nod as I walk out of her office. I stop at my desk to arrange the car service the company uses for a pick-up and then head into the women’s bathroom to change.

  And that is the story of how I end up in Times Square in a wedding dress.

  Fuck. My. Life.

  This day is shit. Complete and utter shit and I’m done trying to spin it. Done! It’s a good day for nothing is what it is. You know that old saying? It’s not you, it’s me? It’s not me. This day sucks.

  Oh, God, this was probably a sample dress. It’s likely been tried on a hundred times already and now I’m wearing it and sweating in it and—gross.

  I have to swallow the lump in my throat to keep from crying. When I left the office in a wedding dress I almost died. I know it’s New York and people should be used to seeing anything and everything, but that doesn’t help when it’s you. And a woman walking through an office building lobby in a wedding gown is going to get some odd stares.

  Walking around Times Square midday on a Friday in a stupid white dress isn’t much better.

  It’s not anything I would have picked out if I’d gotten that far in my wedding planning before booting the fiancé. My mom and my maid of honor would have gone with me and I’d have tried on something resembling a picture I’d torn out of a magazine. I’d have practiced walking down the aisle and stood up on my tiptoes to get an idea of what the length would look like with heels. I’d have twirled a little to get a sense of how the material would move and what it would feel like brushing against my legs.

  It might have been a princess style with three-quarter-length lace sleeves and matching lace detail over the bodice. Or maybe a ball gown with a sweetheart bodice. Possibly an A-line with a plunging V-neck and a satin ribbon around the waist. It would not have been this dress. Not this spaghetti-strapped, empire-waisted chiffon dress I’m currently wearing.

  I drop the box of flyers at my feet and kick it before grabbing a stack off the top. At least I’m wearing my sneakers. See, everything happens for a reason. These sneakers are like a little gift from the universe right now.

  “Huge wedding dress sale!” I call out to a couple of women walking nearby, but they don’t even turn their heads. Well, that’s a great start. I manage to pass out a couple dozen before I’m asked what my rate is. For the night. Because the guy thinks I’m a hooker.

  I tell him to fuck off and contemplate looking for a new job, good company be damned. This is ridiculous.

  I’m grabbing another handful of flyers when I’m approached by one of New York’s finest. If this ends in me getting arrested I am definitely quitting. I could always move to Hawaii and be a waitress. I’ve got loads of experience from college. I’d find an outdoor ocean-front restaurant to work at and I’d make more than I do now, plus I’d get to enjoy a million-dollar view and fresh ocean air. Fine, I may have fantasized about this a time or two and done the odd hour or three of research. Visualizing a life of shorts and flip-flops all year long is my escape.

  “Miss, you can’t perform here. You need to move to one of the blue zones.” He points to a section of pavement covered in blue paint.

  “What?” I question, glancing over at the area he’s pointing at. I’m vaguely familiar with the groups of costume characters and street performers working for tips in Times Square being restricted to designated zones.

  “I’m not a street performer,” I tell
him with a shake of my head. “I’m just telling people about a sale at the Budget Bridal Stop.” I hold up a flyer. “See?”

  “Solicitations in the blue zone, miss. Move along before I have to ticket you.”

  Solicitations? I’m not soliciting! Wait, maybe I am. Does advertising a bridal shop sale count as selling? Shit. I pick up my box and walk over to the blue zone while wondering how much a one-way ticket to Honolulu is.

  Probably more than I have.

  I’m in the blue zone for less than five minutes before some idiot in a superhero costume makes a pass at me. I literally cannot make this shit up.

  Twenty minutes after that I get my first tip. A tourist drops a quarter into my box as he walks past. I’m about to yell at him that I’m not a street performer when it hits me.

  I left the office without my purse.

  Without my phone.

  Without my subway card.

  Without a return ride.

  That’s the exact moment I start to cry. I’m not a complete disaster, I don’t start sobbing, but my eyes are filling with tears, so I focus on a giant neon sign advertising Broadway’s latest hit to try to distract myself from the knowledge that it’s a two-and-a-half-mile walk back to the office from Times Square. It’s not that I’m incapable of walking that far—it’s the idea of walking it in a wedding dress. It’s gonna be one hell of a walk of shame, that’s for sure.

  “Oh, she’s doing performance art!”

  I blink and focus on the woman standing in front of me. She’s clasped her hands together and has a wide smile on her face, staring at me as if she’s just discovered a wombat in the middle of the concrete jungle that is the pedestrian plaza in Times Square.

  “What are you supposed to be? A jilted bride?”

  I start to shake my head but when I do a single tear breaks free and rolls down my cheek. Fuck.

  The woman nods and seems satisfied that she’s figured me out. “Very well done. Give her a dollar, Frank.”

  Well then, now I can add performance artist to my resume. Fan-fucking-tastic. I wipe the tear off my cheek and take stock. I’ve got a dollar twenty-five. I think a single subway ride is three bucks if I remember correctly. It’s cheaper to get a MetroCard and buy a monthly pass so that’s what I normally do. So problem solved, right? I just need to get a couple more tips and I can take the subway back to the office. Still embarrassing, but the subway is full of odd characters so people will probably just think I’m a stripper on her way to a gig. In any case it’ll get me back to the office a lot quicker.

  I don’t think I could pay the rent on street performing because it takes me another twenty minutes to collect two bucks. Once I do I stuff the rest of the flyers into the trash. My boss can fuck herself.

  Not that I’m going to tell her that.

  Out loud. In my head I tell her that all the time.

  Besides, she’s never going to know I tossed the rest of the flyers. Normally I wouldn’t do something so unethical, but let’s face it: I’m almost certain she made up this job just to get to me, and I did hand out most of them. Or more than half, which is most.

  I wonder if the Budget Bridal Stop is even a client.

  I bunch the material of the dress below my waist and lift it a few inches so I don’t trip on it as I make my way down the subway steps so I can hop on the One towards the West Village. I buy a pay-per-ride card with my panhandling earnings and hold onto the quarter I have left over. Yay me.

  According to the monitors the train is due to arrive in three minutes. I’ve been whistled at twice and received another offer for paid sex just in the time it took me to buy a ticket so I move as out of the way as possible and try to blend into the wall while I wait on the train’s arrival.

  I am sort of curious about the sex offer. Like I wonder what he wanted and how much he was willing to pay. Not that I would have! Of course not. But it’d be nice to know how much I could fetch in a jam. Just saying.

  The subways in New York have these incredible old tile mosaics spelling out the names of the stops. I find the workmanship so lovely in an age of neon signs and electronic monitors. They’re so permanent in an era of disposability. I’m in the midst of examining the tiny tiles, marveling over how they must be near a hundred years old, when I feel someone beside me. When you live in the city you get pretty good at detecting people in your personal space versus just passing by, so I take a step to the right and turn, expecting another prostitution offer. I think I’m just gonna ask this time what kind of money we’re talking about because I always imagined myself as a high-end call girl and not a twenty-dollar-blow-job hooker. I mean, if it ever came to that. It’s like three back-up plans behind waitressing in Hawaii.

  But it’s not an offer for sex. It’s the hottie from yesterday, grinning at me in all his dimpled glory.

  Chapter 4

  “So you’re one of those girls,” he says. His tone and expression are solemn as he shakes his head a little.

  “Which girls?” I ask, confused.

  “The crazy ones,” he says with a laugh and drops his gaze to my dress. The dimples are in full force and his eyes are sparkling with mirth.

  “Well, that’s rude.”

  “How is that rude?” His brows fly up and he looks aghast in a teasing sort of way. “It was a compliment.”

  “How is calling someone crazy a compliment?” I narrow my eyes at him.

  “Well, the crazy ones are usually good in bed.”

  “Well, I’m not,” I say dismissively. Dick.

  “You’re not good in bed?” He tilts his head in my direction and lowers his voice. “Are you sure? I bet you’ve got crazy untapped sexual potential.”

  “No, I’m not crazy,” I reply with a shake of my head but I can’t help but smile. Untapped sexual potential? What a jackass.

  “Of course not. It’s just what? Wedding Wear Friday at your office?”

  “Oh, I get it. You’re one of those guys.”

  “Which guys?” he asks, but he’s smiling.

  “The asshole ones.”

  “Possibly.” He nods. “I can’t say it’s never been mentioned.”

  “I bet.”

  The train pulls in and I move towards the doors as they open. Of course he follows. There’s no reason to stand on that platform unless you’re waiting on the next train, so I assumed he’d follow.

  “Are you going to say yes?” he questions once we’re onboard and the doors close. There are no seats available so I settle for slinging my elbow around a pole to steady myself as the train jerks into motion.

  “No, I’m not interested in a threesome with you.”

  He throws his head back and laughs at that. He’s stretched over me, his hands wrapped around the horizontal bar running over my head. I’ve got a view of his throat from this angle. The muscles flex as he laughs and I have to fight the urge to reach out and run my fingers along the collar of his shirt.

  “At the altar. Are you going to say yes at the altar?”

  Oh.

  God, what an asshole. Is he ever going to ask me to three-way with him so I can turn him down?

  “No, I’m not getting married today.” I say married like it leaves a bad taste in my mouth, because it does. “And this isn’t my dress. If I was getting married it wouldn’t be in this. It’d be in…” I stop. “Not this.” He doesn’t need to hear more than that. “And I’d have done something more with my hair and I wouldn’t be wearing sneakers.” I thrust my foot out from underneath the hem of the dress and wiggle the toe of my shoe. “I’m wearing this stupid dress because I’m in the midst of a really bad day.”

  “I think you’d make a stunning bride just as you are.”

  I suck in my breath at that because he’s staring at me like he means it. What is his deal? Is he flirting with me or not? He has the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen on a man and it feels nice to have them trained on me. Plus he smells good and he makes me feel less stupid in this dress when he’s standing beside me. As if i
t doesn’t matter who stares because we’re in on the joke together. Then he leans in closer and I think he might kiss me but his lips pause by my ear.

  “And for the record, I’m not into threesomes. I like to focus my attention on one woman at a time.” He eases back and meets my eyes while I suck in a breath.

  “Don’t you have a go-see or something to do?” I mutter because I’m blushing and I need to break this spell he has over me before I hump his leg on the subway.

  “What’s a go-see?” He looks confused.

  “Isn’t that what it’s called? When you go see designers and they decide if they should book you or not?”

  “You think I’m a model?” His eyes flash and his lips pull into a wide smile.

  “I assumed you were,” I say, eyeing his abs. He laughs at me so I snap my gaze back to his face. “But I meant like a runway model or something. You’re obviously too hideous for print.”

  “Of course,” he agrees.

  The train slows as we pull into Penn Station and I tighten my arm around the pole so I don’t stumble. He leans in closer as travelers push past to exit and new passengers enter, yet it’s not intrusive. He’s not taking advantage of the limited personal space available, which in New York is chivalry.

  “So if you’re not getting married today, do you want to tell me what the dress is about?” he asks when we’re in motion again. “You don’t even have a phone on you,” he points out while eyeing the dress for a pocket that doesn’t exist. “That’s not safe.”

  “Bad day at the office,” I reply.

  “Is your name really Lauren or was that a decoy name you give strange men?”

  “It’s really Lauren.” I sigh. “I meant to give you my decoy name but you caught me off guard yesterday.”

  “Good. Lauren, have dinner with me tonight.”

  “I don’t think so.” And I really don’t. He seems like the kind of guy who’s way too much for me. And probably not the ideal guy to ease back into dating with. Like jumping on a stallion when you belong on one of those coin-operated ponies at the grocery store.