by Maggie Bloom
How ironic. I was trying to figure out how to tell her I might have to vacate the apartment, and now she’s beaten me to the punch? “Maybe we could share your room,” I say, tugging at the edge of the FedEx box. “Dex could pay half of the rent, and we could split the other half.”
She grimaces. “I don’t know.”
Interesting. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she wants Dex(ter) all to herself. “Is there something going on between the two of you?” I ask.
She takes a seat on the toilet, and I continue picking absently at the FedEx box. “Can you keep a secret?” she asks.
Um, probably not. “Yeah, of course.” I smile reassuringly. “Bring it on.” To be honest, a glimpse of someone else’s drama might be just what I need at the moment.
Ask and ye shall receive. . . .
“Remember when I was at the bar?”
How could I forget? “With that”—hmm, how should I describe the hunk of burning mangasm she trotted under my nose at The Crowbar?—“really good-looking guy?”
“He’s an actor. Ned Brown.”
Now she’s boggled my mind. “Where’d you meet him?” I ask, wondering how such a hot guy ended up with such a travesty of a name.
“I hired him on Craigslist.”
Come again? “You hired him?” I repeat, barely noticing the flaps of the FedEx box springing open, allowing my fingers to drift inside.
“My parents are coming for Thanksgiving,” she says. “They think I’m married. I told them your name was George Clooney.”
I burst out laughing. “Um . . . what?”
“They don’t get cultural references,” she explains. “I thought it was funny.” She rests her elbows on her knees and cups her chin in her hands. “Anyway, none of the actors worked out, so Dexter agreed to be my . . .” She furrows her brow, searching for the right word.
“Beard?” I ask, not sure if the term fits this particular scenario.
“Husband for hire or something.” She tilts her head and stares at my lap. “What’s that?”
From the FedEx box, I’ve extracted a wrinkled slip of paper, which I’m just getting around to investigating. “A note?” I mutter, studying the unfamiliar handwriting, which reads: YOU FORGOT SOMETHING.
Well, that’s cryptic. And spooky. I’m about to summon a CSI team to vet the package when Jung holds out her hand and says, “Lemme see.”
Should I? I mean, I don’t want her getting vaporized on the eve of her big day.
She doesn’t seem all that concerned about the possibility of imminent death, though, so I let her have it. With the precision of a microsurgeon, she retrieves a small box within a box. “Oh my God! Is this . . . ?!”
The Tiffany-blue color gives it away, not to mention the size: solidly engagement-ring territory. My stomach twists.
Swept up in the moment, Jung lifts the cover off the box, revealing yet another box, this one soft and velvety. With the latest box enveloped in her palm, she unhinges its lid, displaying the hunk of compressed carbon Trent tried to force down my throat—literally—mere hours ago.
Jung’s gleeful face spikes my guilt to a whole new level. “I’ll take that,” I say, seizing the box and snapping it shut.
“Oh, okay.” She searches my eyes before hesitantly saying, “Congratulations?”
I cram the ring back in the FedEx box and affect an upbeat—or at least neutral—tone. “Yeah, thanks.”
Chapter 19
“Are you sure you want to do this?” asks Mom as we load the last of my boxes into her Subaru. “Living with someone is a big step. We can always squeeze you in with Angie for a while, until you find a new place.”
As it turns out, Dex’s invasion of the apartment provided a good cover story for my vacating; now I can keep my parents in the dark about my financial woes indefinitely. “C’mon, Mom,” I say, perturbed by her umpteenth look-before-you-leap warning. “We’ve been over this a million times.” I give the stack of boxes a shove, lower the Subaru’s tailgate, and lean on it until it latches. “Trent’s a great guy. And this is only a trial. If it doesn’t work out, it’s no biggie. It’s all very casual.”
Truth be told, taking things to the next level—or, well, level jumping, actually, since Trent and I have yet to consummate our relationship—is more serious than I’ve let on. But Mom doesn’t need to know that (nor does she need to know about the Tiffany box wrapped in a ball of Kleenex and stuffed in the bottom of my purse).
“If you say so, Em,” she relents with a sigh. Gently, she kisses me on the cheek, then envelops me in the kind of tender hug we haven’t shared in a very long time. “Just take care of yourself, okay? Promise me that much.”
It’s entirely possible that, at any moment, I may dissolve in a puddle of tears. Until then, though . . . “I love you,” I say, returning Mom’s hug. “Don’t worry. Everything will be all right.”
* * *
Trent was on a business trip to Arizona when Mom and I schlepped my meager possessions (most of the furniture in the apartment belongs to Jung, and I left my bed for Dex, since Trent and I will be sleeping together in his master suite) over to his luxury condo, a modern trilevel with a corkscrew staircase, sixteen-foot ceilings, and polished stainless-steel everything.
The place was a little sterile, I admit. So while Trent gallivanted around the Southwest, I injected a pop of color into his gray-on-gray living room with a couple of strategically placed throw pillows. Then I dressed up his barren windows—which was no easy feat, considering their panoramic view—with some tasteful, unobtrusive valances. I would’ve sprung for a pair of chintzy floor lamps and maybe even a set of whimsical oven mitts too, if my bank account hadn’t suffered a near-death experience. At least I’m not paying rent anymore, though. The thought alone drops my blood pressure twenty points.
Now if I can just select the perfect bouquet of fresh flowers from Trader Joe’s (my post-decorating-spree budget has enough wiggle room for a few “essentials,” including the aforementioned floral arrangement), I can beat Trent back to our place (gulp!) and leisurely await his arrival from Logan.
I settle on a nice bunch of daisies, tuck them under my arm, and jostle my way toward the registers. Before I can pick a checkout line, though, an out-of-control shopping cart cuts me off, pinning me against a display of sparkling cider. I’m about to unleash a tirade of four-letter expletives at the moronic pusher of said cart, when . . .
“Hey, Em,” a familiar voice says, throwing me off my game. “How ya doin’?”
Oh, no. It’s Jimmy.
“Um, good,” I respond, averting my gaze. “Just picking up a few groceries.” Jesus, won’t he unjam that cart from my leg, so I can make a quick getaway?
Apparently not.
“That’s good. You look good,” he says, clearly stuck for conversational material. (I mean, my greasy hair is bunched in an unruly knot, and my jeans are so stretched out they’re threatening to slip down and expose my granny panties.)
I laugh. “Yeah, okay.”
“You do.”
He should have his head examined—and not just for making delusional claims about my appearance. “Thanks,” I say, hoping that agreeing with him will end this insanity. When I quit The Crowbar, I planned to live out my days in peaceful anonymity, never crossing paths with my former boss (and adultery partner) again.
“I saw your column.” He shakes his head. “That was some letter. Everything turn out okay with that?”
I must be hearing things. He cannot be fishing for information about my personal life. I knee the cart sideways and take a liberating step. “Sorry, but, uh . . . I’ve gotta get going.”
“We miss you at the bar,” he blurts. “The new girl’s all right, but she’s no Emmy. If you ever need to make a few bucks, I could put you on a Saturday-night shift. Business has been real good lately.”
He’s trying to ease his guilt by lining my pockets? And I have to work for the payoff? No, thank you. “Listen, Jimmy,” I say, getting an
anger-fueled jolt of audacity, “we never should’ve slept together. It was a mistake. So I’d appreciate it if, when you see me in the future”—even in a city the size of Boston, apparently I’m not going to be able to avoid him entirely—“you do an automatic about-face. No more of this,” I say, waving a hand between us. “It’s not fair to Kayla.”
Having overheard our exchange, a number of shoppers mill about eavesdropping. “What?” Jimmy says, playing dumb.
I sigh. “You heard me.” As did everyone else in the vicinity, I might add.
“We slept together?”
Wow, he deserves an Academy Award for this performance. “The night we drank the cognac,” I remind him, as if he could forget. “Things got a little”—I drop my voice—“physical. I’d like to pretend it never happened, if you don’t mind. Which, apparently, you don’t, because—”
A big ol’ grin blooms across his face. “You think we had sex?” he says, his tone incredulous. He scans the crowd, realizing, I assume, that our private business has morphed into a full-blown Trader Joe’s soap opera.
I respond with a shrug. I mean, I do remember being naked in his presence. Everything after that is a blur.
He wrenches the basket out of my hand and deposits it on the floor. “Come here,” he says, grabbing my arm and hauling me toward the exit, a number of rubberneckers following us with their beady little eyes (though, to be fair, they’re probably just deciding whether or not to involve the cops in our domestic squabble).
It’s bracingly cold outside, even for November. At the edge of the parking lot, Jimmy brings us to a jittery stop. “We didn’t do anything,” he informs me, his voice anxious. “Except for in the alley.”
I hope he’s referring to the day I resigned. Otherwise, I should scour the Internet for an embarrassing sex tape, the security cameras of the deli next door trained on the spot where the action went down. “The kissing, you mean?”
He nods.
Praise the Lord, he’s NODDING!!! “So that night in the bar? Nothing happened?”
His face flushes. “I wouldn’t call it nothing.”
What would he call it, then? “Oh, come on,” I say. “Don’t get all macho on me. Did we have sex or not?”
“We could’ve,” he says, his voice even more defensive. “You wanted to. That’s why in the alley . . .”
Now I get it: the alley move was a test of whether I desired him in the sober light of day. In which case, I see why his pride is wounded. “I love you, Jimmy,” I say, feeling a sudden wave of gratitude; I am not a gutter-tramp home wrecker, after all. I sling my arms around his waist and give him a tight squeeze.
Will I never learn?
In addition to returning my embrace, he bends over and lands a forceful kiss on my bewildered lips. The urge to fight him off lasts only until I taste him: hot and honey sweet, with a tinge of nicotine. I haven’t had a cigarette in weeks, it seems. And we could consider this our (overly intimate) goodbye, our chummy relationship having died for no good reason in that alleyway.
I’ll give him that much, I decide. A happy way to remember me.
As my lips move against his, I wonder if I should bear some guilt. (I don’t.) And, if so, in the name of whom: Mark or Trent?
Chapter 20
Only a handful of people have my new cell phone number, so when my phone rings, I’m caught off guard by the sight of an unknown caller. After Letter Gate—I mean, I had crackpots from Peoria to Poughkeepsie dialing me up for a little heart-to-heart—I’m admittedly gun-shy about answering.
But maybe it’s important. “Hello?” I gasp, cradling the phone to my ear as I bump the Green Goblin’s trunk shut with my elbow, my laptop bag swinging from my shoulder.
“Emmaline Waters?” a woman’s voice asks.
“Yep.” I hop the curb and scurry down the sidewalk, intent on putting in some face time at work, so Mitch has a reason to keep me employed—though, from the rumblings around the office, I have nothing to worry about. (Rumor has it that the media attention to the “story” of Mark, Angie, and me has increased the paper’s online circulation by two whole percentage points!) “This is she.”
“Stay away from Mark Loffel.”
My mind skips a synapse. “Huh?”
The voice repeats, “Stay away from Mark Loffel.”
Irrationally, I keep responding, instead of hanging up like a sane person would. “Who is this?” I ask. I wrestle my way through the revolving door, bashing an unsuspecting janitor in the ass with my bag as I exit the merry-go-round.
“Leave Mark Loffel alone,” the voice demands, “or else.”
I pause by the elevators, figuring the call must be some sort of prank by an amoral entity—a couple of rogue deejays, perhaps, or a desperate blogger looking for her fifteen minutes of fame. But as hard as I scan the area for camouflaged recording devices—like, say, a Rhododendron-come-lately—I hit a brick wall. “Ha-ha. Very funny.”
The line goes silent for a few seconds, and just when I think the caller has hung up, I hear: “You’ve been warned.”
This is ridiculous. I’m not going to let some random nutcase rattle me (though, to be fair, my heart has begun pumping like an oil rig off the coast of Qatar). “Mind your own business,” I say, pressing the up arrow on the elevator-button panel. “If you call me again—”
Click.
Well, that was easy. I shake my head, give the phone a distrustful stare, and bury it in my coat pocket. After a sweaty, crowded (not to mention extraordinarily slow) climb to the second floor, I waltz into The Times with renewed energy, a positive attitude, and rocks in my shoes—which carry me (the shoes, not the rocks) all the way to my meager cubbyhole and two-thirds of the way through my inbox before . . .
A throat clears behind me, pulling me out of a daydream about Mark, whom I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of since we “reconnected” two weeks ago. “Yes?” I say without turning around.
Sharon Fleming’s voice is not as shrill as usual when she announces, “I’m headed to Demi’s. Care to join me?”
It’s official: I am definitely being punked. “I just got here,” I say, shimmying sideways and scanning the hallway for Ashton Kutcher or someone of his ilk. “I should probably get some work done.” A neutral smile. “Sorry.”
“Are you sure? My treat.”
Nuh-uh. The evil shrew who haunts my nightmares is not offering to buy me a demitasse cupful (hence the name Demi’s) of the finest espresso in Boston. The more I think about it, maybe she’s the unknown caller and this out-of-character invite is an attempt at covering her tracks. In which case . . . “Oh, what the hell.” I flip the laptop shut and reach for my coat. “I could use a midmorning pick-me-up.”
“Excellent.”
Is it, really? We shall see about that.
We trudge the eight and a half minutes to Demi’s in cool—literally and figuratively—silence, the crisp November air making me appreciate the rocks in my shoes for the heat-friction they’re creating.
When we reach our destination, Sharon holds the door (will wonders never cease?) and I slink inside, a blast of dry heat swirling up my nose. “Thanks,” I say, nodding politely as she pulls up beside me and studies the dusty chalkboard of coffee and pastry specials.
“Do you know what you want?” she asks.
I fumble through my purse for a credit card that isn’t maxed out, because even though she’s offered to pay, I’d rather not owe a debt to the devil. I mean, who knows what psychotic torture she’ll dream up for me once I’ve sampled her Turkish delight—or, in this case, sipped the sweet nectar of . . . “I’ll have the Turkish coffee, please,” I tell the distinctly un-Turkish-looking blue-eyed blonde behind the counter, slapping my VISA down.
“Make that two,” Sharon says, not even bothering to crack open her clutch.
The barista cashes us out, my credit card taking a hit for around twenty bucks. I scratch an illegible version of my signature on the tiny receipt and join Sharon at a wrought iron t
able by the windows, where she’s beaten me to the good seat, the sun warming her back instead of searing holes through her corneas. “Your column’s really hitting a groove now, huh?” she comments while we uncomfortably—in more ways than one, the chairs stiffer than Aunt GiGi’s peanut brittle—await our coffees.
“Um, yeah. I guess,” I say, unsure whether she’s making a statement, in which case my response is redundant, or asking my opinion, in which case my response is superfluous.
For some reason, she feels the need to make small talk. “I’m glad things are panning out,” she says. “I suppose I can tell you this now, but I wasn’t so sure about you in the beginning.” She chuckles to herself. “But Mitch . . . Well, what can I say about Mitch Heywood? The man is a legend.”
“He’s all right.”
“You don’t like him?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Has he hit on you?” she asks.
That’s an odd question. “No.” I fight a shudder. “I don’t think so.” Although it wouldn’t be the first time—see the Jimmy Fiasco—I’ve been oblivious to a wayward advance. “Why? Has he, um”—I can’t bring myself to say the words—“you know? With you?”
“Pfft. If only.”
I’m not sure I’ve heard her correctly over the chattering gang of teenagers that has just invaded Demi’s cramped seating area. “You’re interested in Mitch Heywood?”
“God, no. Don’t be ridiculous,” she says, swatting the question away. “I’d just like to get—”
What? The chance to turn him down flat? A stockpile of evidence for a sexual harassment lawsuit?
Before she can put my curiosity to rest, a shaggy-haired guy appears tableside with a brass tray holding two tiny, long-handled copper pots and a pair of vibrantly colored cylindrical cups.
Forget the coffee. I’d pay twenty bucks to stare at these beautiful accoutrements, which look as if they belong in an antiquities museum instead of a scrubby—if expensive—caffeine den.
Sir Shaggy has other ideas, though. With a couple of quick turns of his wrist, he fills our cups and absconds with the glistening pots. Sharon and I get to sipping, our outing wearing thin—at least from where I sit. “Mmm. Good stuff,” I say, marveling at the purity of the beverage, which hasn’t been vulgarized with any of my usual additives, like sugar and milk.