667 Ways to F*ck Up My Life

by Lucy Woodhull

  “Okay!” I said. “I get it, you’re both very funny.”

  “Now get me more crackers, cracker,” Latisha said. “And get me the best ending to a book since Bridget Jones’s Diary.”

  “Mr. Darcy,” said Mel.

  We all sighed.

  And when I was done sighing, I started forming a plan. Well, Giselle started forming a plan.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  F*ck-Ups Six-Thirty-Six through Six-Sixty-Four—

  Love Is Composed of a Dual Soul Inhabiting One Body

  My plan had many facets—most of them ridiculous—and all accompanied by a wardrobe of the mini-est minis I could wear without being arrested for solicitation.

  636. Although that would be a very Giselle thing to do…

  I wrote a blog post about Moaning Myrtle, accompanied by many photographs. In one of them, I forced her to lie on the DVD of Talladega Nights, the movie Yash and I had watched in bed together.

  637. It took an hour

  638. And two visits with my antiseptic before I accomplished that photo

  I also posed a photo of Myrtle sitting on a pair of men’s shoes (procured from my neighbor).

  639. Heh heh heh

  640. I hopefully would cause him to wonder… Whose shoes are those?

  641. Bwaahahahahahaaa!

  642. That laugh was more evil than laugh number 639

  I’d gotten him while devious, and I would take him back while being the same. A little less devious than before, but the goal remained. I needed that giant, sweet, amazing man in my bed forever and ever. Amen.

  The day after my painful cat photo shoot went live, I reached out on Facebook to one of Yash’s friends. This was the most precarious portion of the plan. This fellow, Tim, was one of those who mocked me at the book party, so I was most excited to rekindle our robust and beautiful friendship.

  He agreed to chat on the phone, and I told him my plan, as well as basically groveling about how much I loved Yash, how I wanted to make it up to him, on and on…until he finally confessed that Yash had been miserable without me!

  “No!” I said.

  “Yes,” he countered begrudgingly. “I gotta admit, your blog is fun to read. Did a bird really poop on your head?”

  “Yes. Yes, it did.”

  He laughed. “Yeah, cool. That sexual harassment stuff you went through, though—that’s not cool.”

  “Thanks, Tim. So you’ll help me?”

  He blew really loudly into the phone. “Yeah. I want him to be happy. And I think you’re the good kind of crazy.”

  “Thanks?”

  “You’re welcome. He’s not a good flyer, so get him a little drunk. Maybe I’ll pack him a Valium or two.”

  “Thank you. Let me know when the prep is done on your end.”

  “Ya, okay, bye. Oh, hey—”

  “Yes?” I asked.

  “So, whose shoes was that cat sitting on? At your place?”

  I clapped my hand over my mouth to stifle the laugh—the evil one. “Just a neighbor’s. Why?”

  “Oh, man. That picture drove Yash nuts. He emailed all of us that cat post, going crazy over it.”

  643. Yes!

  644. Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes!

  He hung up then, and I knew it… I knew I had Yash.

  I hoped I had him.

  Oh, God, I still had him, right?

  645. Riiiiiiight?

  Tim, and by extension Yash, in hand, I began making my own arrangements. These nefarious plans would take a chunk of my advance, but if my scheme worked, the money would mean nothing.

  Time flew over the next few days. I arranged vacation off work with Marlene’s blessing, especially seeing as it was in pursuit of Yash—and, thereby, her book investment. She even got me a deal at the airline for better seats than I could afford.

  I went to the dry cleaner’s, the bank, the bikini waxer. Boring and painful, the lot of them, but a girl’s got to cover all her bases, especially when her base has been out of commission for a while.

  Finally, I spent time at the Civil Court. For personal reasons.

  Mel would take my cats for a couple of weeks. Hopefully. Unless my plan went horribly awry, and I returned early in need of cat fur to cry and sneeze into.

  At least I’d never again have a relationship with Yash based on fear. I would be honest, and myself—my best self, my worst self, and all versions in between.

  I barely slept that night, for the next morning would be my salvation or my undoing. But then Peeves jumped up on the bed and settled onto my forehead. Didn’t help me sleep, but at least the purring was nice.

  * * * *

  Mel waited with me on a bright, gorgeous morning near the water at the southern tip of Manhattan. She clasped my sweaty hand in hers with only minimum grumbling. The air smelled of sea, and I breathed it in, converted it to fear, and released it again.

  “He’s not going to say no,” Mel said.

  I nodded to her with a head so light and weak, it might plop off and splash around the island.

  Finally, fifteen minutes late, a limo pulled up to the helipad.

  I stood, adjusted the pillbox hat on my head, and tottered on unsteady heels toward it.

  646. Here goes nothing

  Tim was the first out of the limo. He shot me a leer that told me they were at least one morning cocktail into the day. That was probably good.

  Yash emerged next—somebody pushed him into Tim, who twirled him around to face me.

  I flashed a smile that probably looked twenty-three-percent green with terror. “Welcome to Dagmar-Giselle airlines. Uh, helicopter…lines. I can’t afford a plane. Would you like to be seated in first class, sir?”

  647. I should not have worn a bra if I wanted this to work

  Yash’s jaw dropped, so I cocked a hip and tried to appear alluring. He turned to Tim and his other boys. “What’s going on? Are we flying a helicopter to Vegas?”

  “Nah, bro.” Tim clapped him on the back and testosterone leaped into the air. “I think Giselle…uh…whoever airlines is a better fit for you.”

  I smiled and waved my hand into the helicopter. “Would you like to see the first-class cabin? It’s the only cabin, and it’s a two seater, but it’s very nice.”

  My darling’s face both fell and spread into a small smile as he figured out we were all in on it. “Why are you helping her?” he asked Tim.

  Tim flipped back his sandy hair and said, “Well… I think she loves you. And she’ll never be boring—you have to admit that.”

  Never be boring? I grinned.

  Yash turned his velvet-brown eyes to mine, almost as if he didn’t want to, but couldn’t help it. He’d heard my apologies. He’d read my explanations, save one.

  One of his buds tossed a second piece of luggage at his feet. “What’s this?” Yash asked.

  “It’s the rest of your stuff,” Tim said. “You’re going away for longer than three days. Dude, we wouldn’t have picked through your underwear drawer for her sake if we didn’t like her.”

  The burly guy who’d carried luggage pointed at Mel. “Are you as weird as she is?”

  “More,” Mel said with a wink. “I think I know who my ride’s going to be.”

  “You mean what it’s going to be,” I said.

  She shrugged.

  Yash stared at the new bag at his feet. The guys behind him waved Mel over, so she gave me a whack on the butt and left with the fellas. Through it all, Yash didn’t speak to me, didn’t look at me.

  The helicopter pilot gave a quizzical eyebrow and I shrugged. He smiled and left us beside the helicopter to have a smoke.

  648. I’d made my plans

  649. I’d put on my ridiculous costume

  650. And now, I waited

  Yash took three steps toward me before he deigned to turn that marvelous face down to mine. “Dagmar?” he said, so faintly I almost didn’t hear it.

  “Do you see why maybe I’d want a sexier name?”

 
He laughed then, and hope shone a light bright as the sun in my eye. Ow. No, it was just a reflection off one of the nearby building’s windows. I stepped into Yash’s shadow. “My friends call me Dag.”

  “So…” He took a step forward. “Dagmar is yet another lie.”

  I bit my lip and nodded.

  He nodded. He took another step. He was not yet close enough to touch, but every inch of my skin had leaped to attention at this tantalizing proximity. “Where are we headed? Theoretically?”

  “Well, I thought I’d make at least part of my lies a truth—we’re flying first-class Lufthansa to Paris. Two weeks, all expenses paid by moi. And they’ll even let me serve you drinks if you want. Although not in the uniform—they were not amused by my modifications and—”

  He closed the distance between us and kissed me. And kissed me. And kissed me, like some kind of Disney prince—except dirtier, and with tongues. After a minute or two, we were both breathless, and his fingers ground into my shoulders, pulling me close. I didn’t care about the bruises. He could alpha-male me any day of the week, and thrice on Sunday. I threw my arms around his neck, happier in that moment than maybe I’d ever been in my entire life. Being pressed against that body sure didn’t hurt.

  By the time he let me up, my mouth hurt, but my heart felt as light as the ray of sun blinding my eye, damn it, again. I turned his back to the glare.

  “Say it to me,” he said. “You say it—weird, funny, crazy cat lady Dag. Say it.”

  Tears sprang to my eyes. “I love you, Yash.”

  He shook his head. “That’s not my name.”

  I took a step back. “What?”

  His face crept into a smile. “See? It’s not fun. Yes, it’s my name, barmy lady.”

  “I take that as a compliment.” I waved my arm again in my best air hostess, and he climbed into the helicopter. After a quick fetch of the pilot, we were about to leave for JFK.

  Yash gripped the sides of his seat after putting on his headphones. His knuckles blanched to white and his breathing revved into overdrive. “I’ve never been in a helicopter.”

  “Me, neither.” I pried one of his hands off and held it to my heart. “Did Tim give you a Valium?”

  “Yes.”

  “Take it. God invented drugs so that we don’t have to deal with our fears by ourselves.”

  He took it.

  The blades whirred to life and Yash threw one arm all the way around me in a death grip.

  651. Uh…’death grip’ sounds awful in a flying contraption

  In a life grip. As we began to rise into the sky, I told him through our mic channel, “I love you, Yash. Just look at me. Look in my eyes, baby.”

  He did, his own peepers full of sheer panic as we pitched a little to the side.

  “It’s fine,” I assured him. “We’re supposed to be going up.”

  “Uuuuuhhh-kay,” he said, not sounding very confident in my stewardess abilities.

  I smiled. “I’m going to tell you a deep, dark secret, okay? You’re going to hear all of them now.”

  “Good,” he said. His arm around me loosened just enough to decompress my vertebrae.

  “It’s something I didn’t even realize until the last time we spoke. I didn’t then know exactly why I kept up this ridiculous charade for you.”

  His eyebrows rose expectantly and his arm loosened once again. Excellent. If I kept his brain occupied elsewhere, maybe he wouldn’t be as afraid.

  I ran a gentle hand along his arm as I spoke. “When my ex dumped me—and he cheated on and dumped me—he moved to L.A. without me and without even telling me until he packed...he said horrible things. He told me I was too boring for any man to stay with. That I’d never have real love because I wasn’t spontaneous or wild enough. That I deserved the treatment I’d gotten, that I deserved to be walked all over.”

  “That’s awful,” he said.

  “Yes. My dad spent my whole life telling me basically the same thing. And, well, I believed them. Not in so many words. I didn’t think to myself ‘I’m worthless and boring’ but obviously my extreme one-eighty proved that I did believe it. My behavior wasn’t completely ‘Hey, I’ll make lemonade from these lemons’… It was more ‘If I don’t change drastically forever, I’ll die alone.’” His arm unwound from me and he took my hand. “After I met you, I knew I had to come clean sooner or later, but…”

  “You thought the real you was deficient.”

  “Yes! Worthless, stupid, ugly. But I see now that Blade was both right and wrong. Look, he was a dickbag, so who cares about his opinions? He probably would have cheated on me even if I’d been a Kardashian. However, he was partly right. I did need to start learning how to assert myself and not care so much about the judgments of others. So, while many of my changes were positive, you got caught in the middle of my quarter-life crisis, which I’m kind of ashamed actually happened to me.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t be. Life is change. You took chances, and that’s a lot further than most ever get. I’m proud of you, Gis—uh, Dag. You sat me in a roller coaster without a seatbelt, but I’m proud of you for…for having this wild adventure.”

  My face scrunched into pain. “Can I make it up to you?”

  “No.”

  I gasped and pulled back.

  He yanked me to him once again. “You don’t have to make it up to me—

  652. “Your public humiliations have been very satisfying”

  653. “Very satisfying”

  “Yes, okay,” I agreed.

  654. “Do you have a picture of you with the bird shite on your head?”

  “Okay!”

  He stuck out his tongue at me like an adult. “Hey, you broke my heart. I’m entitled to some schadenfreude.”

  I nodded. “I know. You didn’t deserve any of this.” I slid my phone from my pocket and texted Latisha. “I’m pretty sure Latisha took a photo that day. I shall supply it—spread it far and wide however you wish.”

  “Nah.” He shot me a half-smile. “I just want it to look at it from time to time. To remind me of how we met. I can see you’ve been sorry, and that you were going through difficulties. I read your blog, and sometimes, I felt like you were talking only to me. Especially the weird hidden messages. Seriously, you are an odd, dorky woman.”

  “Wait’ll I tell you how Mel and I took down a date rapist on the Internet.”

  His eyes turned to saucers. “I’m glad you like me. I can’t imagine the fuck-ups I’d have been on the other end of otherwise.”

  “You remember that.”

  “Yes, madam.” He squeezed my hand. “You must promise me, though, that you’ll never lie to me again.”

  “Never. Never ever. You’ll hear the good, the bad, and the Dagmar. Although…” I reached into my bag and pulled out an envelope. “Here.”

  His eyebrows shot up, but he opened the thing and read the paper inside. After a minute, he started laughing. “You’re really doing this?”

  “I think I need both Dag and Giselle, so Dagmar Giselle Kostopoulos is who I shall forever be. And you can call me Giselle when you’re feeling randy.” I shot him a leer and he pulled me into his arms for a kiss.

  Well, he tried, but we clinked microphones. “Nope. It’s Dag when I want to get some of that sweet ass. I’ll call you Giselle when I’m angry.”

  You couldn’t have wiped my smile off with a sledgehammer. “Deal.”

  “In actuality…” He licked his lips and blinked a lot—the meds were kicking in, and his knuckles had turned his normal, lovely shade of brown. “My mother can never, ever know about our…interesting meeting story. And if she ever hears about your book, we’ll have to lie and say it was about another brilliant, young, fine-ass writer. In fact, maybe we can just pretend you’re Indian.”

  “Uh…” I snickered. “I’ll let you be in charge of those lies.”

  “Good, yes. Desi children lie to their folks regularly. And their folks probably lied to their folks. A line of lies stret
ching back a thousand years. But that’s a story for another day.”

  I grinned, my face nearly hurting from the sheer volume of joy. “Well, we have a long flight to Paris. And two weeks to snuggle in bed.” I leaned closer. “I can’t wait to hear about all of it.”

  He slid his hand up my miniskirt and teased my thigh. Unnnnnfffff, how I’d missed this!

  I said, breathlessly, “Have I mentioned that your new book is brilliant?”

  “No, but feel free to now.”

  “It’s the best book ever written by any person on earth or in any other parts of the universe!”

  He got all bashful—so cute. He batted his lashes as he looked at his hands. “You can give me that exact cover quote, since you’re a much more famous author than I am. You’re the voice of a generation.”

  655. God help us all

  “Yash?” I said.

  “Yes, lovely girl?”

  “Say it to me. I said it to you, but you haven’t said…the words…” My heart thumped, waiting to see if he felt—

  “I love you, Dagmar Giselle Fuck-up Kostopoulos. God help us all.” He lifted my hand and kissed it, sending me into a shiver from both his words and his actions. Could it be real? Did a fuck-up like me really have a storybook ending? My phone dinged—

  656. Latisha had sent the photo of me, the voice of a generation, covered in bird poo and slush

  I guess it wasn’t every girl’s storybook, but hell, it was mine. I handed the phone to Yash, who burst into laughter and immediately texted the photo to himself.

  657. I had better be nice to him for all of eternity now

  658. Because that was a baaaaad picture

  659. Bird shit crusted into my nose

  660. Dirty, wet hair all over my forehead, and

  661. Worst of all

  662. She’d taken the photo from a downward angle!

  663. Hello, double chin

  Maybe not the cover of the storybook.

  Yash was still laughing. Like, wildly. I figured it was his drugs, but he wasn’t afraid anymore—or mad at me—so I let it go.

  He deserved to laugh at Dag, at Giselle, at whoever I was tomorrow.

  The helicopter descended at JFK airport, and I held my Yash throughout the wobbly touchdown.