My mom.
Sliding the answer button, I whisper through fresh tears, “Momma.”
Because, no matter how old you are and no matter how much you think you have it together, sometimes a girl just needs her mom.
Two months later
Living with Jessi now is no different than when we were in college. Of course, we aren’t sharing a dorm room with our Goth-loving roommate and living off ramen noodles. Now we each have our own room and have upgraded our noodles to the spaghetti variety. We’ve matured.
And of course, there’s the little fact that we never have to sleep in a twin bed again. The day we graduated and moved out of the dorms, I vowed to never be woken up from landing face first on the floor. What can I say? I flop around like a dying fish in my sleep.
Another distinction between being roommates with adult Jessi and college Jessi, is her preference for freshly ground coffee beans instead of a can of coffee. Each morning, she’s up early to go for a run, and by the time I peel myself out of bed, the coffee is percolating, and the entire apartment smells amazing. This morning is no different. After sliding my feet into my slippers, I grab my oversized hoodie and pull it on before gathering my hair into a ponytail.
Walking into the kitchen, I rub the sleep from my eyes when she singsongs, “Good morning, sunshine.”
“Have you always been this annoyingly chipper in the morning and I blocked it out?” I ask as I fill my coffee cup and add a splash of creamer.
“Yep. Don’t be a hater. What’s on your agenda today?”
“I’m going to do some laundry and probably binge season two of one of the Housewives before I have to get ready for the party tonight.”
After Trenton and I decided to call off the wedding, I successfully called seventy-five of our closest, and not so close, friends and family to advise of our change in plans, then I quit my job. Nobody can ever accuse me of not giving one hundred percent when it comes to major life changes. In one week’s time, I broke up with my fiancé, called off my wedding, moved out of my house, and quit my job.
Then, I ate my weight in ice cream and cried for a week.
The week Trenton and his buddy went on what was supposed to be our honeymoon, I packed up my belongings and moved into Jessi’s apartment and wallowed. I was overcome with sorrow and despair. I was mourning the end of a three-year relationship and the realization that, while I loved Trenton, I was no longer in love with him. I couldn’t shake the funk I found myself in. That is, until Jessi, Courtney, and Jen held an intervention of epic proportions. By epic, I mean they took my ice cream away, threw me in a cold shower, and threatened to post a picture of me in the middle of my funk on social media for all to see if I didn’t get my shit together. They’d do it too. Each of them. I need new friends.
Trenton and I still haven’t figured out what we’re going to do about the house, but for now, he’s let a few friends move in, and they’re supplementing what would have been my half of the mortgage. Thankfully, Jessi is fine with me crashing in her spare room for now, and in exchange I offered to clean and do the grocery shopping. My meager savings is being stretched to its limits, but I’m grateful I have it so I can figure out the next step in my new life.
“I’m glad you found a job you love, Whit. I think this is a good thing.”
“Love is pushing it a little. I’m doing bitch-work at best.”
“Perhaps,” she says as she slides her eggs from the pan to her plate along with a little bit of melon. Her breakfast never varies and just once, I want to see her eat a big fat plate of pancakes. Which will never happen. She reserves those moments for after a long night of drinking when she can blame the decision on the booze. “But, it’s the first step to something you really want to do. Event planning isn’t just a career you can jump into. You have to pay your dues.”
Unlike Jessi, I’m less concerned about a healthy breakfast and pour some cereal in a bowl before adding a splash of almond milk before taking the seat across from her at the small table. “I know but it doesn’t make it any more frustrating. I didn’t love my last job, but at least I had seniority and didn’t have to do coffee and bagel runs anymore.”
“Tell me about tonight’s party. Black tie?”
Shoving a spoonful of sugary cereal in my mouth, I don’t reply right away. I wish it was a black-tie event. At least then, there’d be a chance I would be needed for more than taking out the trash.
Since I’m the lowest man on the event-planning totem pole, my primary responsibilities revolve mostly around moving tables and chairs to fit a diagram one of the planners designed or making sure all the trash is emptied. I’m rarely at the actual event and spend my work hours in leggings and a grubby T-shirt instead of a beautiful gown.
One day at a time. One event at a time. My day will come.
“No black-tie. It’s a dinner of some sort. Small businesses, I think. I’m not certain,” I say shrugging before stuffing another spoonful of sugar in my mouth.
“Regardless, you’re learning about every aspect of event planning. I think it’s great. It could be worse; you could be me and still in freaking law school. Who thought going to school for another three years was a good idea?”
Laughing, I simply point my spoon in Jessi’s direction as my response. She returns the gesture with a middle finger before picking up her dishes and rising from the table. I turn my attention back to my cereal and wonder how many episodes of my favorite franchise of screaming wealthy women I can get in before I need to leave for work.
If I fast forward the commercials, at least three.
Maybe four if I go with dry shampoo instead of washing my hair.
After four episodes of my favorite show, two loads of laundry, and scrubbing the shower Jessi and I share until it sparkled, I call my day of leisure to an end. Dressed in my favorite black leggings and a gray tunic, I gather my belongings and exit our apartment to start my workday.
The sun is high in the sky as I pull my sunglasses from the top of my head and walk to my car. Clicking my fob, I settle behind the wheel and wait for the air conditioning to cool the dark interior of my car when a truck driving through the complex catches my attention. At first glance, I think it may be Lucas, but it isn’t.
I’ve lost count how many times I thought I’ve sworn on my non-existent children I’ve seen him. Once, I was buying flowers at the wholesalers for an event and swore up and down he was one of the vendors. It wasn’t him. The guy didn’t even look like him.
There was another time I was buying tampons and thought he was the guy stocking boxes. Not him. He didn’t give up his dancing ways to earn minimum wage and stock the super absorbency tampons I was buying. Unfortunately.
Regardless of how much Lucas invades my thoughts, I haven’t grown the lady balls to call him. To text him. To send him note via carrier pigeon.
Nothing.
I’ve ghosted him.
Or he’s ghosted me.
At this point, I’m not sure which, but I miss him. I don’t just miss the way my heart fluttered when he placed his hand on my lower back or how I felt warm from the inside out anytime he looked me straight in the eye and slowly smiled. We won’t even touch on how much I miss the way I felt when he kissed me. The way my heart fluttered, and my toes curled. We’re not talking about those things.
I really want to talk about them. I want to revisit those feelings. I want to climb in his lap and have him hold me in comfortable silence.
Blinking rapidly, I suck back the tears that threaten to fall. I will not cry. I have no right to cry over Lucas DeCosta; we are reconnected friends who spent a few days together. That’s all.
Sure, during those days, our friendship grew, and I may have fallen into some feelings. Feelings or no feelings, I’m fresh out of a long-term relationship, starting a new career path, and thanks to all these major life decisions on the fly, suffering from some serious real-life financial blues. I have a newfound appreciation for Lucas’s choices after seeing my mail
these days. Bill after bill, thanks to my fantastic wedding planning and not so fantastic idea to insist my parents let me pay back some of the funds they lost with my decision.
My phone signals an incoming text message and using my hands-free option, I listen as the device reads me the text message. “Please stop and pick up another package of the cocktail napkins and another case of water on your way.”
At least my supervisor uses the word “please.” That’s more than I can say for my last boss. Once I’ve told my phone to reply with confirmation of the request, I turn my car in the opposite direction to the wholesale outlet where we purchase most of our supplies for events.
Jessi wasn’t wrong when she said I’m learning every aspect of event planning. Part of me wishes I had known about this place when I was planning my wedding to Trenton. The savings on wine and beer for our engagement party would have been nice.
After parking my car and securing a cart from the front of the store, I walk toward the section for bottled water where a display of flavored syrups grabs my attention. I wonder if I start making my own fancy coffees at home how much I’ll save. Math is not my strong suit, so I grab my phone from my purse and begin tapping out how many drinks I can get out of a bottle when a familiar scent infiltrates my senses.
Lifting my gaze from my phone, my eyes connect with the beautiful browns I was thinking about just a few minutes ago.
Zing.
Zang.
Electricity.
It.
“Hey, I thought that was you.”
“Oh, hey. Hi. Uh, how’s it going?” I stammer, tossing my phone in my purse as I run my hand through my hair and remember how I look. Great.
Laughing, Lucas says, “It’s good. Busy with school and stuff. How are you?”
“Oh, ya know. Living the dream at the wholesale store.” My attempt at humor falls flat and that kind of sucks. I’m a funny girl.
“Can’t choose a flavor?”
“What?” I ask, confused.
Lucas motions toward the display of syrups, and I roll my eyes in response. “No. Just contemplating how many flavors I actually need in my life. What are you doing here?”
“Grabbing beer. The guys are coming over for poker tonight, and this is the best deal in town.”
“That’s good to know.”
I should tell him I broke up with Trenton. I should tell him I’m sorry I haven’t called. I don’t get a chance when a couple of guys shout his name from the front of the store.
“Guess that’s my cue to go.”
“Sounds like it. We should—”
“It was good to see you, Whit,” he says, cutting me off. Deflated, I offer a small smile and a nod in response.
Watching as he walks away, I think I just missed the only opportunity I’ll have to have Lucas back in my life.
A networking event for local artists.
A baby gender reveal party.
Not one, but two, events for the “Hot Thirty Under Thirty” in the area.
Those are the events I’ve worked on in the last two weeks. Two weeks of taking out more trash and moving more tables than I thought possible. I have, however, mastered the art of folding a cloth napkin into a stork. Or some sort of bird the hostess of the baby shower insisted to be at every table setting.
The Thirty Under Thirty events were equally depressing and motivating. I was depressed as hell to know I was nowhere near the level of the people being honored, but it lit a fire under my ass to get there. I have under five years to get it together and make that list. Or at least one of the two.
I think my hard work finally paid off, because yesterday my boss pulled me into her office and told me she needed me to be available for an event tonight. Not only was I not responsible for the setup, but I was instructed to “dress accordingly.” Finally.
Taking a little extra care with my hair, I’m standing in my room before the large mirror on my wall, sectioning off hair as my flat iron warms up. My door slams open and Jessi barges in like a tornado startling me.
“You will not believe who I saw at the gas station,” she shouts dramatically before taking a large drink from her wine glass and sitting on the edge of my bed.
“Well, if you’re being this dramatic, I’m going to guess someone you didn’t want to see.”
“What? Oh, no. I totally had a crap day. Stupid professor. Anyway, I saw Lucas.”
My heart skips a beat and then drops because as much as I regret not calling or texting him after I left Portland, the level of regret I have since not calling him after running into him a few week ago is of epic proportions. I may also be slightly dramatic.
“That’s cool.” My non-chalantness is on point.
Rolling her eyes, Jessi scoffs.
“It is cool. I told you I saw him a few weeks ago. So weird, we’ve lived in the same damn city all this time, and I never saw him and then boom. He’s everywhere.”
“I think that’s what happens when you practically lick his dick in public.”
“Uh, who almost licked his dick?” I ask, looking at her confused as I pull another section of my hair through the flat iron and successfully burn my finger. I know I should probably wear one of those protective gloves but they create so much static, I end up looking like I just rolled out of bed instead of spending thirty minutes on my hair.
“Eh, it was close enough to your mouth, if you wanted to, you could have licked it.”
If I roll my eyes at her any more, all of my mother’s warnings will come to fruition. They’ll stay in the back of my head forever. Ignoring Jessi’s ridiculous notion about dick licking, I attempt to change the topic to something that makes her happy and easily preoccupied.
“Will you look at the outfit I have hanging? I want to make a good impression but not look like I tried too hard.”
“On it,” she says as she hops from the bed and downs the rest of her wine. I watch in the reflection of the mirror as she assesses the simple black dress I’ve pulled and hung on the back of my closet door. The dress has a modest neckline with cap sleeves. The length hits just above my knees and while fitted, it’s still comfortable and allows me to move freely. I may not be on the setup team tonight, but I have to be able to adapt to any situation necessary, and that includes being able to move around freely.
“Are you going to a funeral? What the fuck is this?”
“It’s professional and doesn’t draw attention to me. I need to blend in.”
Adopting my usual response, Jessi rolls her eyes and opens my closet door before she begins rummaging through the hangers. Ignoring her, I finish my hair and apply a little product to help the flyaways when a bright red skirt and black blouse sways in front of me.
“This.”
“No.”
“Yes, Whit. You said this was a bachelorette party, right? The women will be dressed up and on the sexier side. You will look like you’re trying to impersonate the Queen Mum. Besides, you need to feel confident and own this night. It’s a big deal. I know you say you’re okay, but I’m worried. You never know how you’ll react to this.”
“I’m fine, Jess. I swear. I’m not going to breakdown because I’m working on a bachelorette party. I’m surrounded by wedding talk every day, and it hasn’t been an issue. Plus, I’m supposed to blend in, not stand out. A bright red skirt is sure to draw attention.”
“It’s a party, Whitney, not a funeral. Wear something that would have people wondering if you’re the event planner or a guest. This does that. The skirt is long enough you will still be professional, but this top is still sexy and sassy enough to blend in. Pair it with your black kitten heels, and you’ll be perfect.”
I do love the skirt, it’s one of my favorites. The top was an impulse buy, and I haven’t even taken off the tags. It’s black with a high neck, but the overlay and long sleeves are lace, which gives it a bit of an edgier look. Without a second thought, I grab the outfit and get dressed before fastening a pair of diamond studs in my ears.
“So you didn’t ask about Lucas,” she says to my back as I walk down the hall toward the front door.
Dammit. So close.
“He asked about you.”
That has my attention, and I stop in my tracks, my purse in one hand and my coat in the other. Turning to look at Jessi, I see a devious smirk on her face and wish I had something to throw at her.
“What did he say?”
“Not much, but he asked how you were doing. I told him you were doing amazing, but the single life was not for you.”
“You told him I was single!” I exclaim.
“I did. And he seemed interested by that. I guess you failed to tell him that when you saw him last.”
Sighing, I look to the clock on the microwave and don’t have much time, but I want to know what else was said. I want to know if he seemed interested. I want to know if I should call him, or if that kiss we shared was all we’ll ever have.
“I told you I was going to ask him to coffee, but someone interrupted us. I didn’t have time. But thanks for being my messenger.”
Laughter bellows from her like a freaking hyena, and she’s doubled over in seconds with tears streaming down her face. What in the world?
“I’m kidding. Oh my goodness. The look on your face was priceless.”
“You’re a bitch,” I say with relief lacing every syllable of my proclamation.
“Of course I am. I did see him, but I only said hi. He did ask about you, and I told him I’d tell you he said hi. That’s all. But if your reaction means anything, I think you need to give that man a call.”
“I have to go. You better clean the bathroom after pulling that shit on me. It’s the least you can do,” I say before heading to the door.
I Don't: A Romantic Comedy Page 9