667 Ways to F*ck Up My Life

by Lucy Woodhull

  “And it’ll be a good reminder about the state of assholes out there.” She took my hand, and we started back toward her place. “I wish the glorious matriarchy would take over already. We’d be given medals. I hereby anoint us members of The Order of the Scum-Defeating Amazonians!”

  “Hooray!”

  Our breaths came labored on the ride up in the elevator. Once in Mel’s apartment, she said, “I love you, fellow Amazonian, but get the hell out. I have work in seven hours.”

  “Gotcha. I have work in fourteen hours, so I feel your pain.”

  “Shut up. Love you.”

  We hugged, long and hard. I felt like a superheroine with her partner in justice.

  Mel said, “Congratulations on the new job. I’m so, so happy for you. You’re going to be fantastic, sug’.”

  I started to tear up, as it was finally hitting me. “Thank you. I can’t believe how much has changed in such a short period of time.”

  “What are you gonna tell Yash?”

  We stopped at her door and I leaned a hip on it. “I don’t know. My schedule is going to be much more corporate.”

  “Dag, I’ve kept pretty quiet about this whole thing. I think your soul searching has been good for you—exploring new possibilities, not taking shit anymore. It’s been inspiring, honestly.” She looked me square in the eye. “But the way you’re treating him is wrong. He will find out, and the only way you possibly have of salvaging things is for you to be the bearer of strange news.”

  I broke away from her gaze, because…well, because she told the truth. There was a difference between empowerment and being an asshole.

  “I know. I know. I’ll… I’ve got to figure the best way to do this.” I opened the door and escaped into the hall.

  She smiled to lessen the stern talk. “No matter what—hos before bros. I’ll always support you. I won’t chop up the body, but I will help dig the grave.”

  “Let’s rob a bank next. Murder is above our pay grade.”

  Mel’s nosy neighbor, who’d stuck her head into the hall, gasped, retreated back into her apartment, and turned the bolt. Loudly.

  I walked home, the cold air performing wonders for my drunken state. My head wobbled, but hadn’t fallen clean off yet. That is…unless I anticipated the conversation I must have with Yash tomorrow. Then the whole damn melon smashed into the gutter.

  Chapter Sixteen

  F*ck-Ups Four-Hundred-Seven through Four-Thirty-Five

  Full Wickham

  The next evening, Yash answered his door in boxers and nothing else.

  407. Yash answered his door in boxers and nothing else

  Not my mistake, but I’d suffer all the same.

  He pulled me into his arms and planted such a passionate whopper on me that it made my head dizzy. Not to mention my heart.

  I wrenched myself away and proceeded into his apartment. The confusion from him hit me like a ton of lies. “I have to tell you something,” I said.

  Good. I’d gotten that much out.

  He closed the door softly. “Uh-oh. That sentence ranks up there with ‘we need to talk.’ Should I put more clothes on?”

  I didn’t reply, and he pulled on a T-shirt that had been draped over the arm of his couch.

  Heat washed over me, and I sank onto said couch because I couldn’t remain upright. God, I might pass out. I just had to do it. Rip the Band-Aid off the bullet hole he didn’t know he had.

  “Damn, what is it?” He sat beside me and took my hand. “Do you not want to see me anymore?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, shit. You’re dumping me.”

  “No!”

  “What?”

  I put my head between my knees. “No, I don’t want to dump you.”

  He whooshed out a huge breath. “Good. So what is it? Are you a secret agent and not an air hostess?”

  This was the best lead-up I’d ever get.

  He took my hands and looked me in the eye with his soft, strong, melting, sexy, forever eyes.

  408. “I’m going away for a month!”

  The words shot from my mouth unbidden. Where had they come from? Had a demon invaded me?

  409. Probably weeks ago…

  “Oh.” Yash leaned back onto his couch like a puppet let down from its strings. “Oh! That’s okay. A month is nothing in the age of Skype, and there are these things called jet planes. You’ve perhaps ridden on one?”

  I managed a weak smile. What had I done? Was I such a mistake now that I was incapable of telling the truth?

  “Where are you going?” Yash asked. “Is it for work?”

  410. “Yes.”

  411. “I’m taking over for another flight attendant.”

  412. “She’s my friend and put me in for her Southeast Asia route.”

  413. Was that even a thing that flight attendants did?

  414. I continued, “It’ll be a fun, working vacation.”

  Yash grinned. “How exciting. I should have the funds for a visit. Can you get me a flight? Does it work that way?”

  Uh…

  415. “Sure.”

  “Ah, the perks of dating a jet setter.” He wrapped his big hand around the back of my neck and leaned down to brush soft lips across my collarbone.

  I bolted to my feet. He fell backward with an open mouth. “Sorry,” I said. “I could spend the next week in bed with you, but I-I have to get on a plane in two hours. I’m sorry it’s so fast.”

  His whole face fell even as he smiled. “It’s all right. I’m a big boy.” He rose and held me close for a long moment. Not kissing me, not groping me, just…cherishing me.

  I squeezed him back, knowing this might be the last time. I needed just one more moment to remember his smell, his heat, his body pressed to mine. “I’ll miss you so much,” I said. I’d never been more honest in my life.

  “Me too.” He did kiss me then, gently and with overwhelming sweetness. “Be safe, and I’ll be counting the minutes until I can visit you.”

  I tore myself away and left before I could fuck this thing up any more than I already had.

  But no biggie, right? I’d just start my new job in publishing. The same field he worked in. In the same city. All while pretending to be in Thailand or Singapore.

  * * * *

  A week later, I walked into the offices of Hysterical looking like a million books. No more beige and navy for me. I wore skinny jeans, a screaming red blazer bedecked with silver zippers, and sky-high silver platform heels. Every head turned when I walked in the room.

  Oooh, this was an excellent feeling.

  I’d Skyped twice with Yash in this time. I’d bought three different kinds of curtains to talk to him in front of, the most hotel-looking ones I could find.

  416. Even my ugly draperies were a lie

  But none of the evils of my nature would diminish my triumph on this day. A sweet assistant named Maria showed me to my office, to be shared with another editor, Latisha. Everyone around me radiated sunshine, and it was obvious they were genuinely happy to be at work. None of them wore the furtive, rats-running-from-a-predator glances that Carmichael’s staff had.

  I met with Marlene to report on the research I’d done—comps on coffee table books about fashion, women, etc. We discussed many angles for the book, as well as several journalist photographers to approach. In just an hour, my soul felt alive again. I wanted to inspire women never to give up, no matter how many lemons they’d been forced to stomp into lemonade.

  We batted around a few other book ideas, and the whole meeting made my head swim with possibilities, purpose. It even overshadowed how much I missed Yash.

  I gathered my stuff and stood to leave when Marlene placed a hand on my arm. “Close the door,” she said.

  Dutifully, I shut the small conference room door and returned to my seat, thinking she wanted to talk HR or benefits with me. “What’s up?”

  “I saw your last post. I’m glad you didn’t disclose your new employer or the start date s
o that it wouldn’t be completely obvious where your new job was. You were the watercooler talk around here all last week. Lot of fans in this office.”

  “I’m glad you thought it was okay.”

  She nodded. “Did you really tell the guy that you’d be across the world for a month?”

  I started to sweat under my fabulous pink bra. “Yes. That’s a real mess, but hopefully I can—can concentrate on being here and building a new start for myself.”

  “I also saw that you have passed two hundred thousand Twitter followers. So, do you intend to keep reporting from the inside?”

  “I— Honestly, I have no idea. But I can assure you— This job is my priority.”

  “Good! It should be. However… I have a proposal for you.”

  I sat up straighter.

  “I want Six-hundred-sixty-six to be a book. Published by us, of course.” She set her own laptop aside and leaned on the table. “If you don’t want that, please know that it will in no way affect your job here. Even if you shopped it around and took it to a different publisher.”

  You’d need a squeegee to scrape my jaw off the floor.

  Her eyebrows rose. I gaped. She started to laugh. I gaped. She slammed her hand on the table. I jumped!

  “Uh… Oh, my God, Marlene. That’s… That’s amazing. Yes. Maybe? I have to talk to my partner. Oh, wow. Can we think about it?”

  My Fairy Bookmother waved her hands. “Get an agent, which should be easy with your connections and an offer on the table. Take me for all you can get. Or whomever—you should look after yourself. This is a business.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “For my part, I thought it could be a series of essays and stories about the pros and cons of living as a good girl in a bad world. About standing up for oneself and not being afraid to get dirty to get ahead.” She slid her laptop back and started typing. “But that’s just me. You ultimately have to decide what you want. Personally? I think you could be very, very big. I’m picturing you on The View right now…”

  She gave me a polite ‘go away’ look, and I beat feet back to my office.

  Latisha, a striking black woman around my age with long, blonde Nicki Minaj hair, laughed when I stumbled into our shared space. “You have the same face everyone gets after a meeting with the diva. You good?”

  I giggled and sat down. “Yes, I’m okay. It went really well.”

  “We’re excited to have you. I know Melanie…Mason, you two are tight?”

  “Yes, since college.”

  “Yeah, it was awful the way Burns treated you.” She smiled, wide and friendly. “Hopefully, you’ll find us a friendlier bunch.”

  I sat at my desk. “Well, nobody’s tried to grab my ass yet, so it’s superior to my first day there.”

  I got a text—Hunter wishing me good luck today. Aw. Ha ha. After Yash dumped me, maybe I could…

  417. Better not think about that too hard

  To work! I read and typed and made notes…but I could hardly concentrate on the fashion book.

  I had my own book to consider.

  My own book. My own book! Advice for other women?

  418. Ha ha ha ha ha ha haaaaaa!

  Oh, boy. What to do? Mel would know. Suddenly, my excitement doubled. Both of us could get a massive boost from this! We’d share this grand adventure together.

  Of course, Yash would be the smartest person to get advice from. I only knew the business from the other side of the desk—he was a bona fide author.

  My phone buzzed.

  Mel: HOLY SHIT READ DIRTYLINENS RIGHT THIS FUCKING MINUTE!

  I clutched my chest. Maybe my book should be about twenty-something women giving themselves heart attacks.

  A thousand scenarios flashed through my mind.

  419. They were going to get me

  420. Taylor’s powerful family would have me murdered

  421. My father would release a statement saying that my murder didn’t matter

  422. Because have you met my better daughter?

  I told myself I wouldn’t type the URL even as I typed the URL. Bam! Top story. ‘Have You Been Roofied by Taylor Choate?’

  No telling what sound I’d just made, but Latisha bent sideways to peer at me around her monitor. “You okay?”

  “Yes, thanks.” I ducked back behind my own and started to read.

  Holy. Balls.

  The Order of the Scum-Defeating Amazonians was not the only source that DirtyLinens had found on the Taylor Choate scandal. Stories of his scummy behavior in the office. Accounts of attempted roofie-ing. But we of the Order were the crown jewel of their exposé…for we’d given them pictures.

  They’d fuzzed the heads and nudity of the women, but there they were, in all their horrible glory. Some with Taylor giving himself the thumbs-up over the clearly passed out body of an unclothed woman. Some with his body parts on theirs—again, when they were clearly sleeping. Shit, one of them was drooling into his duvet.

  The story had only been up sixteen minutes. One hundred and twelve comments…and counting.

  I texted Mel back.

  Me: Wow. It relieves me to know we’re not the only source.

  Mel: Me too. I know they won’t be able to use our stuff in any legal way, but maybe it will prompt an investigation?

  Me: Yes. I need to get back to work now, but I actually have even bigger news. Dinner tonight?

  Mel: Of course. I have to take you out on your first day!

  I put my phone aside and read more of the article comments. Several women were starting to come forward to talk about Taylor and adding their bad experiences. They read exactly like what had happened to me. The site encouraged them to email Abby to tell their stories, which meant at least one follow-up, no doubt.

  Perhaps my ridiculous antics of the last weeks had actually produced a positive result. There would be no shoving this genie back into the bottle. Maybe his family had known what a scumbag he was and maybe they hadn’t, but I had a feeling they enabled him often, so I just couldn’t find it in my heart to experience guilt.

  Not when he’d intended to roofie me…and much worse.

  The rest of the day passed in a haze of paperwork and learning and meeting amazing new people. Latisha was super nice and patient with all my ignorant questions, and her taste in office music was fantastic, so we were well matched. She too edited nonfic.

  Several of the gals wanted to take me for drinks, so I invited Mel along. We had a wonderful time, and I kept pinching myself that this was, in fact, the dream job I hadn’t even realized I needed. A community strong in women, together in purpose. Funny how you think the thing you lost was the best you’d get and bam! a new window opens to a better world than you ever let yourself imagine.

  In the wee hours, I found myself getting teary with happiness, gratitude. Mel gave me a long hug. I didn’t have to explain my emotions to her.

  By this time, she and I were at the end of the cocktail train, so I sat her at a tiny table and couch at the back of the bar. I bought us glasses of champagne, and Mel lifted one to make a toast.

  I stilled her hand. “No, I am the one who will be toasting you.” My glass aloft, I said, “To Mel, who has stood by me during my quarter-life crisis.”

  She laughed, and I swiped away a tear.

  “Mel, thank you for encouraging me. Especially to start the blog and such. I have the most amazing news—Marlene has made us a book offer. She wants to publish the Six-hundred-sixty-six blog as a love letter to other women about the virtues of not being perfect.”

  Mel gasped, her champagne slopping. “What?”

  “Yes. And it’s our book, of course. Hell, it can be your book if you want. You are my best friend and cheerleader and conscience.”

  “Holy shit!” she screamed in her adorable Southern accent. Several people turned their heads, and we drank from our bubbling glasses of glee. She locked her arms around me, squeezing the breath from my lungs. “I love you, too, sug’. And no way am I doing this
alone—fifty-fifty. Then we can be notorious millionairesses together. Deal?”

  “Deal.” I took another long pull of champagne. “Marlene told us to get an agent and to only take her deal if we wanted to.”

  “So…she’s giving her blessing to shop it.”

  I nodded. “We can get an agent and consult with them. I certainly don’t think that we’d be in poor hands with Marlene.”

  She danced around in her seat. “Oooooh, I already have ideas about agents!”

  “Me too!” I took one more sip of bubbly and set it down. “Listen, I would love to stay and celebrate, but I need to get back to Skype Y—” I nearly bit my tongue off, for I hadn’t—

  “Why are you Skyping Yash? Didn’t you tell him?”

  I suddenly had to find something in the deep, dark recesses of my purse.

  Her eyes turned into cartoon saucers. “What did you tell him? Because it clearly wasn’t the truth.”

  I whined. “Why do you say that? Maybe he’ll think the whole thing is…creative and…funny.”

  Those saucers narrowed to slits.

  “Thanks for the pep talk,” I said. I picked up my glass, but—

  423. Why is the champagne always gone?

  Mel yanked her own glass away from my wandering eye. “Giselle… What. Did. You. Tell. Him?”

  I tore my eyes away from her wonderful-looking drink with its inebriative properties. “I’m in Singapore right now.”

  Mel nodded slowly. “Uh-huh. And why are you there?”

  “Because another girl needed me to switch routes.”

  Mel nodded slowly. “Uh-huh. And when will you return?”

  “In a few weeks.”

  Mel nodded slowly. “Uh-huh. And what the hell is wrong with you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Mel nodded slowly. “Uh-huh. Me neither. How are you convincing him you are in Singapore?”

  “I have a whole new collection of curtains. Although one time Myrtle jumped into my lap during a Skype, and I freaked so hard I fell backward out of the chair. The camera was too high for him to see her, thank goodness.”

  She put her head in her hands. “I’m choosing to call this ‘research’ for the book, and not your psychotic break.”