Come As You Are

by Lauren Blakely

  Until Ray called from the office.

  “Hey, babe. I’m ready.”

  “Me too.”

  But he was ready for something else.

  “Ready for a change,” he added. “See, I love you, but . . .”

  My heart skittered up my chest, my skin chilling as the hair on my arms stood on end. No good sentence ever began with I love you, but . . .

  His I love you, but was that he was moving to Macau in China. He’d landed a job there and would be moving out, putting the apartment up for sublet, and going away.

  That was that.

  There was no invitation to come along.

  There was no explanation.

  It was a clean break, and I was sliced from his life.

  Neatly, without any blood spilled.

  He did as promised. He left immediately.

  Like any modern woman, I turned to my girlfriends, to my Singer sewing machine (which I used to make voodoo dolls of Ray, between crying and drowning my frustration in mojitos supplied by Courtney), and to the great World Wide Web for answers. As if I could find a hidden letter from him online. Like he might have pinned a postcard to Google explaining his departure.

  But that’s the crazy thing about the internet.

  We turn to it for answers. We think the answers exist. The internet has trained us to ask it anything. The search bar is filled with questions that we want the machine to tell us—why am I here, is my wife cheating on me, is he the one?

  I tried every permutation of why did my fiancé move to Macau two days before our wedding, and shockingly, Google gave no answers.

  All I could figure was he’d been lured by gambling. As soon as I dug into the search for any shred of comfort, I was reminded that Macau is the new gambling capital of the world. It’s rife with casinos and high rollers. Maybe he decided to roll the dice. To ante up bigger bets. For weeks, I clung to the possibility, but I found no closure online or in real life.

  No matter where I turned to understand why I’d suddenly become the owner of an unused wedding dress and the seller of a modest diamond ring, I came up with a goose egg for an answer.

  I moved out of the apartment I’d shared with him and into my cousin Daisy’s place, returned the gifts that had arrived in advance of the wedding, and buried myself in work until I lost my job.

  Now, months later, I stare at a phone call, a dumb smile still splashed on my face, and think maybe I am on the other side at last.

  As I head for the train, a nearly foreign sensation bounces around inside my chest.

  Something I haven’t felt in a long time but do now, thanks to that phone call.

  Hope.

  A little later, that hope turns into the next course the universe is serving to me on its silver platter, when a text message arrives.

  9

  Flynn

  * * *

  Duke: I have your halo and your panties.

  * * *

  Angel: You’re taking excellent care of them, I trust.

  * * *

  Duke: Yes, I’m quite the keeper of angel accoutrements and lingerie.

  * * *

  Angel: Lucky you. All I wound up with is your start-up button.

  * * *

  Duke: You have my button?

  * * *

  Angel: I wanted something to remember you by. That’s not weird at all to be reminded of someone because of a button, is it? It did start you up, after all.

  * * *

  Laughing, I slip my hand into my pocket, confirming the button is where I left it earlier. It’s also right next to her panties. I place them both on the table as I sink onto my couch by the floor-to-ceiling windows that afford a stunning view of Gramercy Park and beyond. Lights from high-rise buildings flicker in the dark sky, and I wonder where in this city she is. If she’s looking at the same view. If she lives in Manhattan, even.

  * * *

  Duke: Not weird at all. I hope the button brings fun memories. Also, did you slip your hand in my pocket while I was fucking you against the wall?

  * * *

  Angel: Is it an issue that my hands were in your pants while your cock was inside me?

  * * *

  Her directness makes me chuckle as I set my bare feet on the glass table in front of me, next to a signed copy of Astrophysics for People in a Hurry.

  Duke: Not when you phrase it like that.

  * * *

  Angel: Also . . . kidding. Completely kidding. I have nothing to remember you by. Except, well, I’m not likely to forget the hottest ever sex in my entire life.

  * * *

  Pride surges through me as I read her text again. This is a message worth saving. Maybe soon I’ll know the name that goes with Angel, but for tonight, I’m fine keeping up our masked identities. Some part of me is damn curious who she is in my world. It’d be ironic if she worked at my biggest competitor, so I’ll hope she’s truly an angel investor.

  * * *

  Duke: Glad the orgasms were so memorable you don’t need the button.

  * * *

  Angel: Everything was memorable: the dancing, the sex, the talking . . .

  * * *

  Duke: Personally, the talking is what made the sex fantastic. Well, it was part of it. A big part of it.

  * * *

  Angel: I have to agree, and I have to agree that other big parts played their role ably, as well.

  * * *

  Duke: Now I’ll have to revise my earlier assessment to clever, handy, and good with wordplay. But then, I kind of knew that.

  * * *

  Angel: And does that make you even more powerless to resist my charms?

  * * *

  Duke: Considering I’m texting you an hour after you ran away from me, Dirty Cinderella–style, I’d say you have all the power.

  * * *

  Angel: Ha. Doubtful. But thank you for saving my undies. There’s something rather noble about rescuing a damsel’s underthings.

  * * *

  Duke: You’re into this whole nobility thing, aren’t you? Duke and whatnot. Perhaps you should just call me your grace next time. Or Prince Charming.

  * * *

  Angel: Next time, Prince Charming? That seems presumptuous. I don’t believe you arranged a next time.

  * * *

  Duke: No? Does asking for your number and using it sixty minutes later not count?

  * * *

  Angel: Should I be impressed with that timing? Is that some new sort of land speed record?

  * * *

  Duke: You should be impressed I remembered your number. Who can remember numbers anymore these days?

  * * *

  Angel: You.

  * * *

  Duke: It’s amazing what I can recall when I really want to.

  * * *

  Angel: Like?

  * * *

  A visceral memory of earlier in the evening flashes before me, so real I swear I can taste her. I can recall perfectly how she felt against me. I’m parked here on my couch, alone in my dark apartment, the whole of the city keeping me quiet company beyond the glass, and yet, I’m back in time to an hour ago.

  * * *

  Duke: The taste of your lips.

  * * *

  Angel: How did they taste?

  * * *

  Duke: Like champagne. Also, the feel of your body.

  * * *

  Angel: How did I feel?

  * * *

  Duke: Addictive, as I predicted. I want another hit.

  * * *

  Angel: All this talk about next times, and another time.

  * * *

  Duke: I’m getting there. But first, I can recall your eyes perfectly.

  * * *

  Angel: What about them?

  * * *

  Duke: Warm, glittering hazel eyes with bronze and green flecks.

  She doesn’t answer right away. There are no indicator dots on my phone, and I resign myself to the possibility that she fell asleep, or reconsidered.
As I click over to my Japanese app, though, her nickname flashes on my screen.

  The excitement in my chest is out of proportion to what it should be. I know that, but even so, it’s there. It’s real. I feel it.

  Angel: I tried to think of a clever and witty and perfect reply. But all I want to say is this—your eyes are beautiful too, and I really want to see you again. Maybe that’s too forward. Maybe in this modern world of dating in New York City, I’m supposed to let you make the first move. But I don’t care because I want to see you again. Which I already said. But it’s the truth. You’re adorable and hot at the same time.

  * * *

  Duke: Same to you, and I want that too. Also, I seriously can’t believe I only met you tonight. I spent all that time with you, and it was the best unexpected date in ages.

  * * *

  Angel: I like that you consider it a date. But please know I don’t do that.

  * * *

  Duke: Date?

  * * *

  Angel: Ha! Lately, the answer to that is no. But I meant sleep with a man I’ve just met. Everything about tonight was entirely new to me. One-night stand, sleeping with a stranger and not knowing his name.

  * * *

  Duke: It’s not going to be a one-night stand, Angel. Also, is it weird that I’m really happy to hear that? Especially because I’ve never done that either.

  * * *

  Angel: Is it weird for me to be really happy to hear that too?

  * * *

  Duke: Can I take you out tomorrow night?

  * * *

  Angel: Why, I thought you’d never ask, Prince Charming. :)

  * * *

  Duke: You always knew I was going to ask, Dirty Cinderella.

  * * *

  Angel: I don’t like to be presumptuous. But all kidding aside, I was hoping you’d make good and fast use of my number. I’ve also been on a high since I left you—not just because of the O, but also the work call that came in. It was something I’ve been hoping to hear about, and I’m really excited to get all the details. But I can be free shortly after my meeting. Meet at six p.m.?

  * * *

  Duke: Let’s do it. Do you have a favorite place?

  * * *

  Angel: Have you ever been to The Dollhouse?

  * * *

  Duke: No, but if it’s your favorite, I’m there. See you tomorrow. Also, I won’t be wearing a mask. Will you be okay with that?

  * * *

  Angel: I have a feeling I’m going to like your face.

  * * *

  Duke: I feel the same way about you. I’ll tell you my name when I see you.

  * * *

  Angel: I’ll tell you mine then too—that way, we won’t be tempted to google each other. I’d rather see your face for real first, rather than in a picture.

  * * *

  Duke: I was going to say the same thing. I couldn’t agree more.

  * * *

  Angel: For now, I picture you like this.

  She sends emoticons of a tiger cub and a wolf, and the grin on my face is too wide, the lightness in my chest too much. But I’ll take it because I think I could really like this woman, my Dirty Cinderella, and I want to know more.

  As I hold my phone, not wanting to say good night, I decide I better wait for tomorrow to learn any more about her.

  10

  Sabrina

  * * *

  It’s like a movie scene, when the plucky heroine from the Midwest gawks at the brand-new office building in the city, amazed at its size.

  That’s understandable since the high-rise in the heart of pulsing midtown is sky-high. New Yorkers scurry past me on Monday afternoon, barking into phones, lugging messenger bags, and hefting huge purses full of everything anyone could possibly need to do battle during a day in the city.

  The afternoon sun shines brightly, reflecting off the brushed black and gold skyscraper. I stare at the towering structure. Not because it’s new to me, but because I’ve always wanted to be a part of what’s inside.

  A woman in a sharp gray suit pushes on the gleaming revolving door, her heels click-clacking purposefully across the sidewalk as she vacates the power center. She’s a woman on a mission. Of course, she is, if she works here in this sleek, modern castle, home to legions of media outlets, TV networks, ad agencies, and many other businesses that make the media go round.

  When I started as a journalist fresh out of college, I imagined working here someday, writing in-depth features, rich narratives full of color and detail, shining a light on the people behind the Standard Oils and Ford Motor Companies of today—the Googles, the YouTubes, the Apples.

  I never craved covering politics or news of the day. No, thank you when it comes to wars, murders, or Washington shenanigans. Business, however, always intrigued me, in part because I have a mind for numbers and a head for strategy, but also because I’ve always believed business is more than a profit-and-loss report. It’s a story. It has a beginning, a middle, and an end. And the good ones have twists.

  They have zigzags you don’t see coming.

  Raising my index finger, I touch my right earlobe then my left. Both are bare today. No triple hoop earrings, nor my kitschy black spider studs either. I’m in the costume of professional reporter Sabrina Granger, with a knee-length black skirt and a short-sleeved white blouse. Two-inch pumps complete the basic, timeless look.

  Lois Lane has nothing on me.

  I step into a pie section of the door and swish into a lobby with marble floors so polished I swear I can see up my skirt.

  But I don’t self-perv.

  With my chin high, I stride to the security desk and show my ID to a man in a navy suit. He places a call, checking with the receptionist, I presume, at Up Next.

  He nods at me, giving a yes.

  I nearly bounce in my shoes. I’m being admitted into a club I’ve always wanted to join.

  Once the guard checks me in, I paste my name tag sticker onto my shirt and head to the nineteenth floor. Soon, the elevator doors whoosh open into the cool, air-conditioned offices of Up Next, showing off walls lined with framed magazine covers from over the years, introspective faces of artists and business leaders taken by some of the best-known shutterbugs in the world, as well as iconic images of New York and photos that capture flashpoints in history and culture.

  The magazine itself is powered by ads for expensive watches, sophisticated colognes, tailored suits, boats, homes in the Hamptons, and more. Thanks to those advertisers, the offices are opulent. It’s like this magazine doesn’t know that journalism has changed in the last decade, that the internet, social media, and real-time news has upended all our work.

  The receptionist whisks me to Mr. Galloway’s office in the corner, where he waves me in.

  Gray-haired and weathered, but dapper in a Ted Danson way, he wears charcoal slacks, a white shirt, and a yellow tie. His tailored suit jacket is slung over his leather chair. He stands and heads around a massive mahogany desk to greet me. We shake hands, and he gestures to a soft leather couch with ornate arms after we exchange hellos.

  His office screams money and considering my paper laid me off because ad dollars were way down, I can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief that somehow Up Next is largely immune to the seismic changes roiling journalism.

  Mr. Galloway parks himself in a burgundy chair, rubs his hands together, and says, “Let’s get straight to business.”

  “Yes, let’s,” I say, loving that he’s efficient. That’s a good sign in my field.

  “I’ve been watching your work. I’ve been reading your stories recently, and when the paper cut half its staff, I knew it was a chance to nab you for an assignment. I have an important feature I want you to write.”

  I smile, nodding deferentially, delighted he’s had his eye on my work. “I can’t wait to hear what you have in mind.”