Just Jilted

by Lila James

“You might be on to something.”

  “Oh God,” I said, rolling my eyes as my cell phone began to shrill. Douglas was here.

  “Or maybe she doesn’t really exist. He was lonely and invented her. His therapist told him he was suffering from schizophrenia, and there’s no girlfriend. But he refuses to accept it.”

  “Goodnight, Liz.”

  Three hours later, all thoughts of Jackson and the mystery surrounding his ex were gone as I sat across from Douglas over coffee. I was having a great time. Douglas was truly hilarious, and he had a wonderful habit of physically reenacting his stories, not caring who was watching. He was a lot funnier than Marcus had ever been, I noted with delight.

  I was laughing at one of his stories when Douglas grabbed my hand and squeezed it, looking serious.

  “Can I tell you something?” Douglas asked.

  “Anything.”

  “You are a truly beautiful woman. I am so glad I met you.”

  I beamed. The night was getting better and better.

  “Thank you,” I replied. Douglas kept his hand tight on mine. It wasn’t long before his lips met mine in a warm, passionate kiss.

  Needless to say, Douglas was sexy and I was feeling sexy. One thing led to another, and after an intense conversation about the trippy nature of The Wizard of Oz, we ended up back at his apartment. Perhaps we were moving quickly, too quickly, but I considered him to be a rebound for the time being, and those types of relationships moved a lot quicker. And I was certain that Marcus was sleeping with the cover girl he was dating.

  Douglas and I were already engaged in a heated lip-lock when we entered his apartment. I was a bit nervous about making out with someone new after being in a monogamous relationship for a couple of years. When you’re with the same person for a while, sex becomes like a choreographed dance: you know your moves and your partner’s moves, and you get set in a particular rhythm. So going to bed with someone new was like learning a whole new dance.

  We awkwardly bumped into several doors and walls on the way to his bedroom. Once we made it to Douglas’s bedroom, we headed for the foot of the bed, all the while fumbling to shed our clothes. For some reason, in the movies and on television, this was a seamless process, often accompanied by a romantic instrumental score or a hip modern pop song.

  In real life, however, shirts get stuck over heads. I yanked Douglas’s shirt over his head, but it wasn’t budging. At first, it was amusing, but after the fourth yank I got concerned. What if his shirt was permanently stuck at the bottom of his head?

  “I got it, love,” Douglas said, managing to yank the shirt off his head with a ferocious jerk.

  My clothing removal process didn’t go much smoother. First of all, there was the matter of one of my heels accidentally going into the side of Douglas’s ankle.

  “Bloody hell!” Douglas shouted.

  “Sorry, sorry,” I whispered, trying to sound sultry and sexy, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead.

  And then there was the matter of the blue belt I’d added to the dress. The belt had to be removed for the dress to be removed, but it was a little complicated. There were two buttons on both the outside and inside, making its removal a tad tricky. Douglas tried to unbutton it for a full two minutes before attempting to just yank it off altogether, buttons be damned. I had to sit up, scrunch in my stomach, and undo the buttons of the belt myself.

  We thought we were all in the clear, and we were in the midst of a heated make-out session when Douglas accidentally slammed my head into the headboard.

  “Ouch!” I yelped.

  “I’m so sorry, love,” Douglas apologized, rubbing my head. I shook off the apology, leaning in for another kiss. And things were once again getting heated when Douglas stopped, looking down at me.

  I froze, realizing that he was looking at a particular spot on my abdomen.

  I had completely forgotten: there was a wing-like birthmark on the upper part of my stomach. It was something I had been self-conscious about and usually warned old boyfriends about. Marcus had adored it, kissed it, and even named it. At that moment, the sudden realization that I no longer had a lover who was familiar with every nook and cranny of my body hit me. The comfort of the familiar was something I’d enjoyed when I was in a monogamous relationship with Marcus.

  “It’s a birthmark,” I said, flushing. “If it grosses you out or anything, I understand.”

  “No, no, no. I’m a bastard. It just surprised me, that’s all,” Douglas said, gently kissing the mark as he looked up at me with a smile. “You know what? I think we should start over again. I feel like all our foreplay was an elaborate act of slapstick.”

  Even though it was probably a bit ridiculous, we did start over. We got dressed and everything. And the second time around, there were no shirts getting stuck over heads or heels going into ankles. The second time, a romantic instrumental would have been perfect. It was fantastic.

  *

  There’s something to be said about waking up the next morning after a passionate night with a rebound. And that is … the light of day changes everything.

  I groggily opened my eyes, blinking in the harsh sunlight that spilled into the room, once again suffering from the brief rush of amnesia that I always got when I awoke in a strange bed. Next to me, Douglas mumbled in his sleep and shifted, his arms tightening around my waist. This woke me up completely. I remembered that I was stark naked beneath Douglas’s pristine white sheets.

  I looked around the room. I was struck by how empty it was. Despite the fact that it looked to be expensively furnished, it seemed sterile and lifeless. The bedroom Marcus and I shared was overly filled with our stuff, and it was in a constant state of disarray. But it was full of life. With a pang, I missed our old bedroom. And the way Marcus and I slept, either by spooning or hand in hand. Douglas’s tight, possessive arms around my waist now felt very much like a stranger’s.

  I decided to just get the hell out of there. I didn’t feel like enduring the uncomfortable post-coital morning conversation, which typically goes like this:

  “Is my bra beneath your pillow? Oh, thanks. Are those my panties? That’s your sock? Then where are my panties? Um, are you wearing them?”

  I decided that I would slip out without waking Douglas up, avoiding the Morning-After Talk altogether. I managed to wiggle out of Douglas’s tight embrace.

  I eased myself out of bed, cringing as it made a loud squeak. I pulled myself to a stand. Douglas shifted but he didn’t wake up. My shoulders slumped with relief. Whew.

  I was beginning to feel as if my silent escape from Douglas’s bedroom was like some sort of Olympic event, complete with an imaginary sports commentator narrating my every move.

  “Two points to Adrian for managing to slip unnoticed from his arms. Five points for getting out of bed. The referee just deducted a point for that squeaking sound. Let’s see if she can hunt for her clothes and get the hell out of there without a hitch.”

  I searched for my dress and my belt, which were mercifully on the floor right next to the bed. With relief I recalled that I had left my purse and all necessary essentials in getting home in the living room. My earrings had done their duty and managed to stay on. Now all I needed was my underwear.

  It’s always the underwear that inexplicably goes missing. Just like that one sock everyone has that disappears, never to be seen or heard from again. Underwear and socks. The Bermuda Triangle of clothing. They were a pricey Victoria’s Secret pair that I bought after my “wedding” to amp up my feeling of sexiness. They would not be left behind. Gritting my teeth with determination, I did a visual scan of the room.

  “And now, the grand finale,” the sports commentator would say in a hushed tone, eyeing the innocent looking room. “Can Lexley find her missing underwear and win? Can she possibly pull it off?”

  I ducked, scanning beneath the bed. Nothing. And no sight of them anywhere on the floor.

  “You are a rumply lupp, too, lovey dear,” Douglas murmure
d.

  I stiffened as Douglas shifted, biting my lip hard to refrain from laughing at the term rumply lupp. Douglas eventually stilled, falling back into what had to be a strange dream.

  “Her opponent threw her a rough one with that ‘rumply lupp’ business,” the impressed sports commentator would say. “But she’s managing to hold her own.”

  I scanned the bed, and I spotted them: my sexy black Victoria’s Secret underwear, lying right beneath Douglas’s butt. Great.

  I cautiously reached toward the underwear, pulling at them with a hasty tug. And I couldn’t have predicted what happened next.

  As soon as I managed to snatch my underwear from beneath Douglas, he leaped from the bed, landing in a solid karate-like stance. With his arms in front of him, extended in what can best be described as the “karate chop” pose, I half expected him to screech “Hiya!” or even worse, “Rumply lupp!”

  Fortunately, he did neither. He focused on me and straightened, a gentle smile forming on his lips.

  “Morning, love,” he said breezily. “Gave me a bit of a scare, there.”

  Obviously, there was a lot I still had to learn about Douglas.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Bitter Singles vs. Happy Couples

  When I met with Jackson later that day, I was determined to bury the hatchet. I noticed as I took a seat across from him at the coffee shop that he seemed more guarded. He usually greeted me with a flirtatious smile. Today, he barely looked up from his notepad when I plopped down into my seat. I was surprised at how much I missed that smile.

  “Good morning,” I said with forced cheerfulness.

  He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. I handed him a folder as I nursed my chai latte.

  “What’s this?”

  “Just some suggestions I jotted down,” I said. As he scrutinized my work, I leaned forward. “Listen. About the other day: I want to apologize. You’re absolutely right. Whatever happened is none of my business. And I have been kind of snarky toward you. From now on I’ll be on my best behavior.”

  Jackson looked surprised at my apology. But his expression soon gave way to a suspicious one.

  “Who told—” he began.

  “No one told me anything about you, Jackson. Not Jean, not your people, no one. I don’t know anything. I just feel really bad about yesterday.”

  “OK,” Jackson said after a pause, still looking mildly suspicious. “Thanks. I guess. Your material is pretty good. But I was thinking of doing something different.”

  “You barely looked at it.” I tried my hardest not to grit my teeth. I’d spent nearly the entire morning since returning from Douglas’s place composing a spreadsheet of possible subtopics for the article, as well as rehearsing my apology.

  “I did. It’s all good, but I was going to suggest that we interview couples who met in some unconventional ways. That seems to be the direction the article’s going. The unexpected. I think it’d be inspiring. Especially to our single readers who feel like they’ve looked in all the conventional places and come up empty.”

  “Oh,” I said, suppressing a rush of envy. Why hadn’t I thought of that?

  “I can say it was all your idea, if you want.”

  “That’s not what I was thinking,” I lied, but Jackson only laughed.

  “I can read you pretty well, Adrian. So. What’s with your sudden good mood?”

  “Nothing,” I said, blushing as I thought about last night.

  “What?” he asked curiously. “Come on. Can’t we be pals at least?”

  “We’re coworkers.”

  “There it is again. Snark. Just seconds ago you were promising to be all chummy.”

  “I promised to be polite.”

  “You’re not being polite.”

  “Jackson.”

  “Sorry,” he said impishly. His eyes narrowed, and he leaned back in his chair. “A guy. It has to be a guy. Hot date, maybe?”

  “How about none of your business?” I returned, but my flush had given me away. Jackson studied me for a moment, and I caught a strange expression lurking in his eyes.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, nothing. Good for you. You move quickly. Wasn’t your wedding like a month ago?”

  “Again,” I said, openly gritting my teeth this time. “I can’t even ask you about your personal life while you continuously prod me about mine.”

  “Point taken. Just tell me what you think of these interview subjects and we can get started.”

  *

  Later, as I headed home after doing some follow-up work on the article at the office, I still felt awfully judged by Jackson. The fact that I had moved on so quickly shouldn’t concern him. Rebounds always happened quickly. And if he knew who Marcus was dating …

  When I got to Liz’s apartment, I was still ruminating over Jackson’s reaction to my rebound. As I entered, Liz emerged from her room, dressed in a green cable-knit mini dress.

  “You look sharp. Where are you headed?” I asked, plopping down onto the couch.

  “Just this fancy art gallery opening in Tribeca with Stewart,” she said. “I would ask if you want to come, but I can only bring one guest.”

  “No, it’s fine,” I said, heading to my room. “I have to get prepped for some interviews. Jackson actually has decent ideas for this article. How are things going with you two? Mentioned anything about the ring yet?”

  “Oh, it turned out to be a false alarm,” Liz replied. “Stewart was just holding the ring for a friend who’s proposing to his girlfriend. He mentioned it to me last week.”

  “Wow. How come you didn’t mention this to me sooner? You were having a major freak-out.”

  “I just wanted to put the whole thing behind me. I’m just glad that pressure is off, you know? I got worked up over nothing, that’s all. How was your date with Douglas?”

  “Fine.”

  “Just fine?” Liz pressed, trailing me into my room. “You came back in the morning. I heard you attempting to be quiet.”

  “You know I can’t resist British guys,” I said with a rueful shrug. “And he’s my rebound. It’s normal for me to move a tad quicker.”

  “Uh-huh. I might stay over at Stewart’s tonight, so don’t wait up. See ya.”

  Liz left before I could reply. Before I could quiz her more about how she felt about the whole engagement ring freak-out, I noted. And what was up with that “uh-huh” about Douglas? Between her and Jackson, my rebound relationship had been overly criticized. And that’s all it was: a rebound. I knew that by calling it for what it was, there were no real expectations, so I couldn’t be disappointed. I could feel free to make whatever mistakes I wanted until my next actual relationship. It was like a buffer to keep me going so I wouldn’t get too stale.

  The next evening, I agreed to meet Mom and the Zygote to see an off-Broadway play that a couple of his actor friends were starring in. I felt a tad guilty over my drunken behavior the last time I met them, so this time I was determined to be on my best behavior and give the Zygote a chance. I was also morbidly curious to see how Mom would behave during the play. She was one of those people who could not sit silently during any public performance. This included all of my graduations, dating back to preschool. She would heckle me, telling me to stop walking like a chicken, or to adjust my gown so that I wasn’t showing so much leg (this was during both my high school and college graduations). Perhaps it was a good thing Marcus and I didn’t go through with the wedding. I could only imagine how Mom would have behaved during the ceremony:

  “Sweetheart, can you turn toward me when you two kiss? I want to take a picture. Oh, and make sure you open your mouth wide enough for his tongue! I want to catch a real kiss on camera!”

  The thought was mortifying, to say the least.

  But to my surprise, Mom was quite demure during the performance. That was the best way to describe her behavior. In fact, a lot about her had seemed to change. For one thing, she was wearing a daring navy-blue dress that showed
her cleavage. (If I wore so much as a tank top, Mom would refer to it as “prostitute clothing.”) Secondly, she laughed more than she usually did. A lot more. And she was more flirtatious. She would lean in close to the Zygote and whisper something in his ear, to which he would respond by chuckling and placing his arm around her shoulders. At one point during the show, she even rested her head on his left shoulder. I’d never seen her display this level of PDA with my more age-appropriate father.

  I did manage to turn my attention away from Mom and the Zygote to focus on the play, which turned out to be a pretty good comedy. Much to my relief. I’d been suspicious of off-Broadway plays ever since I’d been to one that consisted of a man in aluminum underwear performing pirouettes while sobbing. Seriously. That was the play.

  When the play was over, I watched Mom and the Zygote walk out of the theater hand in hand. The Zygote’s mouth was close to Mom’s ear as he seemed to let her in on some private joke. I tried to suppress a rush of envy. It was having that type of intimacy with someone that I missed about being in a relationship.

  “Did you enjoy the show, Adrian?” the Zygote asked when we reached the lobby. He had his arm around Mom’s waist, and they stood opposite me. The Happy Couple and the Bitter Single.

  “Yes. Thank you,” I said, smiling at him for Mom’s sake. Despite his tender age, I could acknowledge that he seemed to be a nice guy. And it seemed as if Mom genuinely liked him.

  “Would you like to join us for dinner? My friends in the cast are heading to a restaurant uptown,” the Zygote continued.

  “No, thank you. I have to head back home because there’s this article I’m—” I began, but I stopped midsentence. Something on the opposite side of the lobby had caught my attention. Or someone, rather.

  Just when I thought I couldn’t possibly feel more Bitterly Single, there was Jackson. And he wasn’t alone. His hand was resting comfortably on the backside of a rail-thin brunette. Quite possibly another model—maybe even one of Gisele’s friends. The Zygote and Mom followed my gaze.

  “Is that Jackson Taylor? That writer guy?” the Zygote asked with interest. “Do you know him?”