Delia Suits Up

by Amanda Aksel

  It’s a blackout.

  My palms grow sweaty and my heart begins to race as if I’m being suffocated by the city’s shadow. I scramble to find the lighter, but instantaneously the room is bright again. The city’s awake, barely skipped a beat.

  Okay. Definitely time to call it a night.

  I grab my cupcake and chuck the box in the garbage before heading out the door. I walk toward the elevator but then stop short. It could’ve been a fluke power outage, but who wants to risk getting stuck in an elevator, even a Class A model? Glancing around the hallway, I spot the entrance for the stairs. At least I won’t be going up twenty-nine flights. My Gucci and I make it all the way down without incident and trek the well-lit journey down to the street. Heading uptown, pedestrians pass by, seemingly unconcerned about the momentary blackness. Probably all natives, such a steel-nerved bunch. I pass by the subway entrance. Don’t want to get trapped in that tube either. The walk will do me good. Thank God I’m wearing sneakers.

  What a weird day. It’s like there are all these elements in my life that are the right ones, but for some reason, they’re all misplaced. What would it take to sort them out? A bold gust of wind stirs the litter on the pavement and ripples through my T-shirt, sending a chill through my body. I pick up the pace and swipe my finger across the dark frosting. The sugary cream ignites a rich sensation on my tongue, instantly easing the tensions of the day. Maybe I just need more chocolate in my life.

  I take the last bite as I approach my small apartment building. My keys jangle in my hand and I unlock the first door, and the second, then trudge the three flights of stairs up to my floor. The chatter of the evening news seeps through a neighboring door. Across the hall, laughter bellows from a live-audience sitcom. A dog yips and growls as I pass the unit next to mine. I slip the third and final key in the dated brass doorknob and step inside. My roommates, Regina and Frankie, are sprawled out on the living room rug. Accompanying them is a half-empty bottle of cheap red wine.

  Perfect. I can use a glass.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Hola, chica,” Frankie sings, lying on his stomach and turning the pages of GQ.

  “Hey, guys.” I step over his legs to the only clear space in the living room.

  “You need to catch up,” Regina says, propped up with a couple of pillows and texting singlehandedly. “There’s a glass here with your name on it.”

  It’s been almost three years since Regina and Frankie found this place. Regina told me about it one night when we were all out dancing. Well, more like shouted the details over the booming club beats—three bedrooms with closets, close to the subway, and totally affordable if she could find a third renter. Regina and I had been clubbing together since college, but as we embarked on our big-girl Manhattan jobs, we became true besties. She knew I was in a rough roommate situation and said that Frankie and I were her only friends that she would ever consider living with. For the longest time, I thought she and Frankie were siblings, sensing an unconditional love despite their incessant Spanglish bickering. Turns out, they’re distant cousins who became best buds when Regina’s family moved into the same Brooklyn apartment building when they were thirteen. So I figured any family of Regina’s could be family of mine.

  After scrounging the money together to get the place, we couldn’t afford to go out dancing for a while. So we splurged on a few bottles of Two-Buck Chuck and drank them out of mismatched wineglasses on the living room floor. Since then it’s become a regular ritual, and lately, the highlight of my week.

  “After the day I’ve had, I’m gonna need a bigger glass,” I say. My feet throb as I pull off my tennis shoes and let them fall to the worn wood floor. “I schlepped my ass all the way from Tribeca.” I tug my ponytail loose and plop down on the small spot between them on our sangria rug. Can’t remember if that’s the original color or just a giant stain from actual sangria.

  Frankie’s eyes bulge. “You walked? As in too broke to afford the subway?” My lack of income makes Frankie nervous since neither he nor Regina can help cover my part of the rent. Even if they wanted to. Not that I would ever ask.

  “No. As in avoiding getting stuck belowground.”

  They shoot me strange expressions.

  “Because of the blackout . . .”

  “Blackout? What blackout?” Regina asks. Not an ounce of recognition on either of their faces.

  I pull my leg in, kneading my thumbs into the ball of my foot. “It happened about forty-five minutes ago. I thought the entire city went dark for a minute.”

  “Not here.” Regina’s eyes return to the small screen in her hands.

  “I doubt you would have noticed,” I tease and Regina turns a deaf ear.

  Frankie nudges me. “Hey, how was the interview today?”

  “Same as all the others.”

  “Really?” Regina twists her mouth and glances up from her phone. “But you were so prepared.”

  Education, preparation, and hard work are supposed to get you where you want to go, but I’m beginning to think it’s not really about my efforts. I grab the bottle of wine and inhale the fruity, dry aroma before taking a drink. Not bad for six bucks. “It gets worse.”

  “Aw, what happened?” Frankie pushes his magazine away and settles in next to me, draping his arm over my shoulder. I curl into his plushy side. The sterile smell of exam rooms lingers on his black scrubs.

  “I’m gonna need more wine before I can talk about it.” I clutch the bottle close to my chest.

  Regina and Frankie exchange looks. “I’ll open another bottle,” Frankie says and heads to the kitchen.

  “But you got to see Eric, right?” Regina asks.

  The sound of his name is better than another slug of wine. I tuck my hair behind my ear, doing my best not to blush. “Yeah, I saw him.”

  Regina sits up, swats me on the shoulder, and shoots me spill it eyes. I pretend to read the alcohol content on the vineyard label while her laser stare burns into me.

  I shrug. “What? There’s nothing to tell.”

  “Really?” The corkscrew squeaks as Frankie yanks it from the bottleneck. “Nothing?”

  Regina leans in, holding up her glass, and he tops it off.

  “Maybe a little something.”

  They freeze, gawking at me like I’ve just told them we banged in a Monty Fuhrmann bathroom.

  “It’s probably nothing,” I say, because it is probably nothing more than a friendly gift.

  As if on the edge of her seat, Regina yells, “Out with it, woman!”

  I take a nice long sip from the bottle to ease my Eric-jitters. “He bought me a cupcake.”

  They gasp.

  “For my birthday.”

  Another gasp. “Oh my god.” Regina’s grinning like it’s her birthday. “And then . . .”

  “That was it.” My gaze trails off, thinking back to the moment he looked into my eyes. “It was sweet.”

  “Yeah it was!” Regina says. “These days we’re lucky if we get more than a happy birthday text. I think he likes you.”

  I shake my head, pulling myself down to reality. “I don’t know. I mean, if he does, then why doesn’t he just ask me out?”

  “You like him and you haven’t asked him out,” Frankie says.

  And I’m never going to.

  Regina shoots me a smug smirk. “Exactly. It’s not like you to hold back from what you want. I don’t understand your hesitation.”

  “Because he’s not just some guy. He’s one of my best friends. I don’t want to jeopardize that if he doesn’t feel the same way.”

  Frankie slowly shakes his head. “It’s a dating stalemate.”

  “Well, one of you guys needs to man up so you can get it on,” Regina mutters into her wineglass. Some people get sympathy pains. She gets sympathy sexual frustration. My dry spell is beginning to border on revirginizati
on.

  “What kind of cupcake was it?” Frankie asks.

  The best kind. “Brooklyn blackout from Three Little Birds Bakery.”

  Regina smirks. “He went all the way uptown just to get your favorite cupcake. And he remembered your birthday.” She shares a look with Frankie. “Oh, yeah. You should ask him out.”

  “No,” I say and press my bottle to my lips, wanting to chug the whole thing.

  “Delia.” Regina sits up straight, commanding my full attention. “If you’re going to get out of this sex slump you’ve been in, you’re gonna have to grow a pair!”

  “I have a pair!” I cup my free hand around a breast. “So far they’re not helping.” In fact, lately they seem more like a liability.

  She leans back on her pillows and shoves me with her perfectly pedicured toes. “I’m talking about growing a pair of balls. Have some damn confidence.”

  “Pff! I have confidence.” I think back to Eric’s sobering word. Deflated. Does everyone see that? My roommates? The man across the mahogany desk?

  “Mm-hmm,” she mutters through pursed lips.

  I sink down, leaning against our narrow gray couch. “It doesn’t matter anyway. Chances are I’ll be leaving New York and I’ll probably never see him again. Except on Instagram.” The cold reality settles in. Maybe I should just admit that I tried and I failed. “Let it sting,” my dad would say. And it does. Like a fucking swarm of hornets.

  I throw back another swig. “Enough about me. How was work for those of you employed in your chosen fields?”

  Frankie fills his glass to a modest six ounces. “Hmm, I got to assist in a stapedectomy today. It was really cool,” says the third-year ENT resident.

  “I sat in on a pitch for VP Barbecue,” says the junior marketing executive.

  My mopey mouth must be so dim compared to their self-satisfied smiles. “I got to wash Todd Fairbanks’s dirty underwear today,” I say with a mocking tone.

  Regina springs up, splashing wine on her patterned leggings. “Are you serious?”

  I tilt my bottle in the air.

  “He is so cute. Can you hook me up? I could really use a lover right now.” Frankie sends me a wink.

  “A lover?” I let out a small chuckle.

  He shrugs. “It’s just a word I’m trying out. What do you think?”

  “I don’t think you’re his type.”

  “Why not? I’m a lovable, smart doctor. Plus, with his cash, we could have a very satisfying shopping spree. I could dress him and undress him.”

  “Get out of that polo and into my bed,” Regina chimes in.

  “What I mean is, I don’t think he’s gay.”

  He makes a clicking noise through crooked lips and rolls his eyes. “Whatever. All the good ones are straight.”

  “What are you talking about? This is New York. All the good ones are gay.” Regina flashes her purple-stained teeth and I imagine mine are beginning to have the same hue.

  “I think it’s kinda cool you got to go to his place, though,” Frankie says.

  “No, you don’t understand. Monty Fuhrmann is pitching to Fairbanks this week. Eric’s probably at the office right now working on it, making a real contribution. I should be part of it too. Instead, I’m cleaning the man’s toilet. I mean, what the fuck!” The frustration of every closed door from the last four months culminates in my clenched fist. I slam it on the coffee table the way I should have hammered it on that man’s desk. It does little to release my aggravation.

  Regina and Frankie fall silent, watching me steadily.

  I take a deep breath, hoping it’ll fight back my impending tears. “Forget it. I’m getting ice cream.” I head to the refrigerator in our poor excuse for a kitchen. That’s one area where Florida has New York beat—real estate. For the price we pay for this apartment, we could rent a house that’s five times the size and has a screened-in pool. But still, I’d rather be here.

  “You’re still in the running, Delia. It’s not like Monty Fuhrmann said no, right?” Regina’s tone is much gentler. Careful.

  “They haven’t said yes either.”

  “Well, when was the last time you checked your messages?” Frankie asks.

  Knitting my brow, I slice my spoon through the heap of vanilla cream. “A while.” I reach inside my Gucci briefcase for my cell.

  It’s not in its designated pocket.

  I dig my hand in another pocket, pulling out my interview dress and pumps, my research notes and resumes. Pocket after pocket and nothing. My cheeks blaze with prickling heat as the pit in my stomach grows to the size of my Gucci. “Shit. I must’ve left my phone at Fairbanks’s place.” I cover my face, groaning. Eric was right about my luck changing. It’s worse.

  “Ooh, I’ll go get it for you,” Frankie says. “Where does he live again?”

  I give him a sideways look, almost tempted by his offer. “Nice try, but I doubt there’s anyone there. The place was empty when I left.”

  “Here.” Regina hands me her cell. “Just call it and see if someone picks up.”

  I take the phone and dial my number. A picture of Regina and me holding champagne flutes and wearing cone-shaped New Year’s hats pops up on the screen. After a few rings, a man with a deep, rich voice answers. “Hello?”

  It’s him.

  Todd-fucking-Fairbanks.

  “Hi, this is Delia from Amanda’s Cleaning Service. I accidentally left my phone.” I shut my eyes tight, bracing myself for the blast of a displeased reaction.

  “I figured. You can come back in the morning before eleven to pick it up. My assistant will be here to help you.” I release one eye, then the other. The coast is clear. He doesn’t sound bothered at all. Actually, he sounds . . . nice.

  I bite my lip. “Great, and sorry about that.”

  “No problem. I think your phone is the only thing that’s out of place in this apartment. You did a great job.”

  Well, at least someone appreciates my work today.

  “Thanks. I’ll be by in the morning.” My finger quivers as I end the call.

  Regina reaches for her phone. “Was that him?”

  “Yep.”

  Her thumbs tap wildly on her device. “You just had a conversation with Todd Fairbanks on my phone. I need to tweet that.”

  “Gina, please don’t. This whole thing is humiliating enough without you blasting it to the entire Twitterverse.”

  She frowns, setting her sidekick beside her hip. “Fine.”

  Frankie flips through the handful of notes that I tossed out from my Gucci: printed pages of bios, history, news articles, and everything else I could find on Monty Fuhrmann. He mutters something to himself in Spanish, then looks at me. “What’s all this?”

  “It’s part of my prep. The more I know about the company and who runs it, the more talking points I have.”

  “She means the more brownie points she gets.” Regina grins.

  “Who’s this Ian McKellen–lookin’ dude?” Frankie asks, zeroing in on one of the sheets.

  I give it a quick glance. “That’s Liam Golan, the CEO. They call him the Rainmaker. Worth about eighty-two mil. Runs the company from the Zurich office, where he lives with his third wife and two Great Danes.” Hmm, maybe I can try my luck in Switzerland.

  Frankie doesn’t seem as impressed, and gives me a concerned glare. “Stalk much?”

  “I’m not a stalker. I’m thorough because I really want this job.” How many other candidates are this well prepared?

  Regina snatches my bowl and helps herself to a bite of ice cream. “So you can work next to your boyfriend again?”

  My ears tingle at the sound of Eric being called my boyfriend. “No, because Monty Fuhrmann is the best in the biz. And I want to be the best.” Working with Eric is just icing on the Brooklyn blackout cupcake. “Can we talk about somet
hing else?” Please!

  “We can talk about why you don’t want to celebrate your birthday tomorrow,” she says.

  I send her a biting stare. That’s not what I meant by talk about something else. “I’m not really in a celebratory mood.”

  “I think it’s time for Truth or Dare,” Frankie suggests.

  Now there’s a good distraction.

  It may be juvenile, but ever since we discovered the Truth or Dare app, it’s become a staple in our cheap-wine-on-the-floor ritual.

  “Who’s first?” I ask.

  “Me!” Frankie raises his hand. “Gina, truth or dare?”

  “Dare!” she shouts. Someone’s getting tipsy.

  “I need the phone.” He reaches for her cell. I crane my neck to see the screen as he opens the app and hits the “Dare” button.

  “I don’t know why but I love this one,” he says.

  “What? What’s my dare?” Regina’s wide eyes are a little glassy.

  “Spell your name with your ass.”

  She claps and raises her arm, ready for the challenge. “DJ, drop that beat.” With a few thumb taps on Frankie’s phone, Regina’s jam booms through our Bluetooth speaker. She shakes her hips in perfect rhythm. “You ready for the Regina?”

  Frankie and I whoop, cheering her on. This one never turns down a chance to rock her rump.

  “And it goes like—” The wannabe Fly Girl drops it low, brings it up slow, rolls it around, then pops it right like hel-lo! This dare is usually hilarious but Regina makes it look like a hot new move.

  “Okay, JLo.” I smirk. “You’re getting an embarrassing dare next time.”

  Regina circles her booty in the final letter, finishing strong with a snap of her hip. “Whatever. You know you’d be makin’ that D and the E and the L look just as good.”

  “But not the I and the A?”

  She shrugs, making her way back to the floor. “Eh, can’t win ’em all.”

  Ain’t that the truth.

  “Okay, Delia, truth or dare?”

  I suck in a deep breath and release. “Dare.”

  She edges over to me on her hands and knees, wine sloshing around in her glass. Her face is so close to mine that I can smell remnants of merlot and vanilla bean on her breath. “I dare you to call Eric and ask him out right now.”