The Hooker and the Hermit

by L.H. Cosway

  “You’re being distasteful,” said Mick. “And my wife and I would appreciate it if you left.”

  I slammed my hand down on the table hard, and he full-on jumped in his seat. It was hilarious, and I was a little bit drunk on the power. I didn’t need his approval anymore. Why hadn’t I realized this years ago?

  “I’ll go when I’m good and ready,” I said, voice hard, making sure he heard the threat.

  “Mick, call airport security,” said Marie, all high-pitched and squeaky. “This is harassment.”

  “If this were harassment,” I began, my tone quietly sinister, “you wouldn’t still be sitting comfortably in your seats. Pair of fucking cowards, the both of you. You’re so preoccupied with what other people think that you’ve lived empty, lonely lives, and you’ve missed out on knowing your grandchildren. It’s your loss. Do you hear that? You lost.”

  Mick had his phone out of his pocket now, fumbling to search for the number to the airport’s security department. I laughed and loudly pushed my chair back. “Relax—your scumbag grandson is leaving now, so you can go back to arguing and silently hating one another. I used to hate you. Now I just pity you.”

  And with those parting words, I went.

  I still had no clue what I was going to do when I got to New York. I had no clue what I was going to say to Annie when I saw her. I was so goddamn angry with her for giving up, for running away, for not trusting me, for lying about giving me a chance.

  It wasn’t like with Brona. I respected Annie, I’d wanted to marry her, I was well and truly in love with her, and she’d thrown it all back in my face. She’d given up on us without a fight, like we didn’t matter.

  But I did know that if by some miracle we found a way to get past all our shite, together we would never be anything like Mick and Marie Fitzpatrick.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The Mugger: When one bumps into the subject, quickly snaps a picture, and runs away.

  Best for: Close-up shots when the digital zoom on the phone’s camera will not suffice, low light.

  Do not use: If the person is faster than you. You’ll never get away with it.

  *Annie*

  I was a coward and a hypocrite.

  But mostly a coward.

  I couldn’t quite manage a full breath or a complete swallow, not even when I walked through the doors of my building and on to the elevator. I thought for sure I’d start feeling better once I got home, less hunted. I didn’t.

  Instead I felt…empty. And desperately alone. And foolish. And hypocritical. And cowardly.

  I’d never had a problem with my cowardice before. Being a coward always felt like the smartest course of action; it felt like the surest path to sustained and guaranteed safety. But now that I’d been brave—even if it had only been for a few short weeks—being a coward felt like choosing to live underground instead of soaring through the air. I’d voluntarily given up my ability to fly.

  I’d betrayed Ronan by lying to him and then judging and condemning him.

  I’d betrayed myself by fleeing and not making every attempt to work through our—really, my—issues.

  And I had no one to talk to about it because I was a fucking hermit!

  My first instinct was to message WriteALoveSong and ask for help…but I couldn’t do that. I had pseudo-friends, people who commented on my blog, but no real-life confidants. No friend to call. No mother to have over. No gay BFF to cry to while he made me fabulous martinis. I’d started interacting with some of the wives and girlfriends of Ronan’s teammates while in Ireland, but I couldn’t call on them now, not about this.

  I was alone with my cowardice and crazy internal monologue.

  “Damn, dammit, dickless Donald Duck,” I mumbled, unzipping my suitcase, trying to sort through my hastily packed clothes while at the same time trying sort through my hastily stuffed feelings. Both were in complete disarray. Everything was wrinkled and tangled, and I was probably going to cry.

  Then my home phone rang, and I jumped at the unexpected shrill sound. I blinked at it, recalling that my cell phone was still on airplane mode from the red-eye. My heart leapt, thinking that it might be Ronan, so I ran and grabbed the phone without checking the caller I.D.

  “Hello? Hello?”

  “Annie?”

  My leaping heart fell to the rocks below, bruising itself. I stiffened and held my breath because the person on the other end sounded exactly like Ronan’s mother.

  “Hello? Are you there?” she asked, and now I was certain it was her.

  I closed my eyes to gather any semblance of mental armor I had left and cleared my throat before answering, “Yes. I’m here. Hello, Mrs. Fitzpatrick. How can I help you?”

  She was silent for a long moment. I thought I heard a door open then close. She blurted out, “I am so sorry, Annie. I am so sorry I was such a…well, such a cunt.”

  I half choked, half laughed as my eyes flew open; I reached for the table behind me for balance. “Uh—I—um…I—” What does one say to a woman who’s just called herself a cunt with complete sincerity? Eventually, I managed, “Mrs. Fitzpatrick, I don’t know what to say.”

  “Then, please, just listen.” She took an audible breath before continuing, “First, I am sorry. What I said to you, it wasn’t right. I had no right. My son…he is just like his father in so many ways, but he is also very different. I didn’t have the easiest time with his dad. I never quite belonged, and I think he knew it; but I loved him very much.”

  “Mrs. Fitzpatrick, you don’t need to tell me this. I don’t want you to feel like—”

  “But I do. I do need to tell you—because you love Ronan, and he loves you. Most of the shite printed by the media is just that, shite. But pictures don’t lie. The way you two look at each other, I can see it. It’s obvious to everyone that you care about him deeply.”

  I rubbed my forehead with my fingertips; this was not a conversation I was ready to have. “I can’t—”

  She interrupted me again. “He told me about your past, about how you grew up.”

  I had no response for that, though I sat down and released a quiet sigh. Unaccountably, my chin began to wobble.

  “I know something about feeling unworthy, Annie. And I’m sorry if I made you feel that way.”

  I shook my head. “You were right. He deserves better. He deserves better than me.”

  “No, he really doesn’t.” She laughed lightly. “The way you’ve taken care of him, helped him, put yourself out there in the public eye. I’m not sure there is better than you. And, anyway, he wants you. He loves you, Annie.”

  “I know,” I half sobbed.

  “Then let’s start over. Let’s be friends.”

  I was crying now but silently, and I hiccuped ungracefully as I said, “Friends?”

  “Yes. Friends. I’m a shitty mother—poor Luce will tell you that—but I think I can be a good friend.”

  I sniffled, “Oh, Mrs. Fitzpatrick—”

  “Please, call me Jackie.”

  “Jackie, if you knew what I—”

  “None of that. Just promise me you’ll think about it, okay?”

  “But—”

  “Please, promise me. Please. For Ronan’s sake?”

  I took a calming breath and forced my voice to be firm. “Yes. For Ronan’s sake, I would do anything. But also…I want to start over, too.”

  “Good! It’s settled. Luce will be so happy; she…well, she’s a good girl. We’ll be back in the States next week, and I know Ronan is on his way now. We’ll all get together.” Her tone shifted, and I felt certain she was anxious to end the conversation—likely not wanting to push her luck.

  “Wait, Jackie, you should know that…I don’t know how to tell you this, but—”

  “Tell me on Thursday. Listen, I’ve got to run. I’ll ring you when we arrive. Talk soon!”

  “Wait—”

  It was too late; she hung up, leaving me feeling like I’d just been tossed about by a hurricane. I shook
my head and pressed the “off” button. A great, giant swelling of remorse filled every inch of my chest and radiated outward, numbing my fingertips and buzzing behind my ears.

  Then the phone rang once more. This time I checked the caller I.D. The display told me the call originated from Davidson & Croft. I figured it was Gerta, so I answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Annie. You’re back.”

  It was Joan.

  “Uh, hi, Joan, I know I wasn’t supposed to be back until—”

  “Well, we have lots to discuss! I’m taking you off the Fitzpatrick account.”

  I didn’t say anything for a few seconds because my mind couldn’t quite comprehend the words Joan had just spoken.

  “Annie…?”

  “Uh, yes. Sorry, I’m here.”

  “Did you hear me?”

  “No—I mean, yes. At least, I think I heard you, but I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “We’re assigning Beth as the primary liaison for Mr. Fitzpatrick. You’ll take back The Starlet. Also, feel free to keep the clothes, but please do dress as you like. Obviously, I don’t really care one way or the other….”

  I rubbed my forehead with my fingertips again, feeling acutely frazzled, and tried to make sense of what Joan was saying. She was prattling on about my pink cardigan and how it was a shame that I should choose to wear navy blue and brown when red and jewel tones suited me so much better.

  The gist of her one-sided conversation was as follows: I was being taken off Ronan’s campaign. It didn’t matter what I looked like or how I dressed; she valued my brain. However, it was important that I understood non-summery colors suited my complexion best. Yellow was a complete disaster.

  …I am being taken off Ronan’s campaign.

  My brain hurt.

  “Wait! Wait a minute, just—just stop talking,” I shouted at the phone and the inside of my apartment. I was greeted by Joan’s sudden silence as I closed my eyes and rubbed the center of my chest with my fingertips, trying to find the right way to ask my next question.

  I decided there was no right way to ask the question, so I demanded, “Why am I being taken off the Fitzpatrick account?”

  I heard Joan clear her throat, could see her in my mind’s eye straighten her spine and purse her lips. She didn’t like it when people were demanding.

  At length, no longer able to handle the suspense of her cool silence, I added in a much calmer tone, “I’m sorry, Joan. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…shouted. I apologize. I’m just very surprised that I’ve been removed from Ronan’s team. I’ve worked very hard on this account, and I would like to know why I’m being excluded.”

  Her softened, measured tenor surprised me as she explained, “Mr. Fitzpatrick called this morning. He asked that you be removed from his team. Furthermore, he requested that the relationship we’ve doctored for the media end immediately.”

  “He…he did what?” Now my brain and my heart hurt.

  “Obviously, I told him that he is making a mistake. You are the best in this business, I told him. Your ideal image sketch has become a reality much faster than we could have foreseen, largely due to your timing strategy, the social media campaign, and your involvement as his faux love interest. Public perception is just as you’ve designed. I further explained that we couldn’t just end things between the two of you. We’ll have to phase you out of the public eye and phase someone else in who is equally relatable and likable. Otherwise, we risk making him look flighty and unfeeling. Side note here, I’d like your input as to appropriate candidates.”

  “Phase me out?” I choked. “Candidates?”

  “He eventually ceded that point. You’re off the account, Annie. But you’re still on girlfriend duty for the next four to six weeks—but don’t worry, it’s just a few public appearances. Becky has been sketching out the schedule since I got off the phone with Mr. Fitzpatrick. She’ll send you the draft this evening.”

  “The schedule?”

  “Of obligatory public appearances.”

  I was mostly quiet for several long moments, but I abruptly became aware that I was breathing heavily and clutching my forehead with stiff fingers.

  Ronan wanted me gone.

  He wanted me gone.

  He didn’t want me.

  He didn’t even want to see me.

  I’d left last night, and I’d ruined everything; and I had no idea how to make things right. Maybe there was no way to make things right. Maybe I’d left one too many times.

  “Annie? Are you…are you all right?”

  “No,” I blurted, shaking my head and obviously feeling more afraid than sane, because I blurted, “I’m not all right. I’m all wrong. I’ve ruined everything. I’m in love with him, and I didn’t tell him. Instead, I ran away when I found out something that I didn’t know. I didn’t know that he knew who I was. And when I found out that he knew, that he knew about who I was all along but loved me anyway, wanted me anyway, forgave me anyway, I panicked and left because his love felt like a manipulation. But it isn’t, and his emails were the only way he had of telling me how he felt without me freaking out like a ‘Freakout Francine!’ And instead of admitting the truth and owning my part and accepting his feelings and trusting him, I turned and fled like a spineless asshole.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Yes. ‘Oh, dear’ is right. I’m totally fucked, aren’t I?”

  “Uh….”

  “It’s okay, you can say it. You can say, ‘Annie, you are fucked.’ I mean, what kind of person falls in love with Ronan Fitzpatrick but is too much of a hypocrite and coward to own up to those feelings, especially when I know—I know for a fact—that they’re reciprocated! I know it, Joan! But not anymore because he wants me off the account!”

  I might have been slightly hysterical at this point. I wasn’t crying, but I was screaming at my boss.

  “Annie, calm down.”

  “I can’t! I can’t calm down, Joan. I can no longer keep my shit together. You are the closest thing I have to a real-life friend, and you intimidate the crap out of me. I have no one. I had someone, but I threw him away, twice. Two times. I thought I didn’t need anyone. I was wrong. I’m so very wrong…I’m a spineless asshole.”

  I was pacing the apartment, making contingency plans, because I was pretty sure I was about to be fired. My blog could support me, pay all my bills…assuming I wasn’t about to be outed as The Socialmedialite by the dunghead who’d stolen my laptop. Then I would become a true hermit. A shut-in, finding photos for my blog from other sources. Maybe I would get a ferret. A cat just felt too benign. My kind of crazy deserved an ambiguously cute rodent with a penchant for biting.

  Really, I had more money than I needed. Years of spending funds only on takeout, tea, and pastries had yielded a significant savings. Being miserly with my finances and feelings was about to pay off in the most tragic way possible.

  “Listen to me—”

  “I’m fired, aren’t I? It’s okay if I am; just tell me now. If I’m going to lose my shit, I might as well lose all of it at once and have a shit storm of shittiness.”

  “Annie, shut up and listen.”

  I snapped my mouth shut and sat down heavily on my couch, released a resigned exhalation, and bit my bottom lip to keep from saying anything else.

  “Now….” Joan cleared her throat, and I heard some movement in the background. I thought I heard her snapping her fingers. She often snapped her fingers at people when she wanted their attention.

  I prepared myself for what would undoubtedly come next, and tangentially I decided that I should have invested in a therapist years ago. Then I could have called her or him rather than committing professional suicide. Therapists always struck me as a hire-a-friend service. Therapists are to mental and emotional purging what prostitutes are to physical urges.

  Amidst my meanderings about prostitutes and therapists and ferrets, Joan surprised the cuss out of me.

  Of note, she didn’t fire me.
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  Instead, she said, “Put on some tea. I’m coming over. And don’t even think about having another childish fit and leaving the apartment. You might have given Ronan Fitzpatrick the slip, but I will hunt you down and make your life very uncomfortable until I am satisfied that you’ve learned your lesson. You can’t run away from people who care about you and are invested in your success and happiness. It’s a dick move, Annie. Don’t be a dick.”

  Also of note, she used the word “dick.”

  “Uh….” What?

  Before I could say anything, Joan abruptly hung up, leaving me staring at my apartment, wondering into what bizarre universe I’d just stumbled.

  ***

  I didn’t run away. Instead, I did as I was instructed and put the tea kettle on, prepared two cups of Earl Grey, and changed into a black T-shirt and black yoga pants.

  Joan arrived no less than twenty minutes later; she must’ve rushed, taken the company car. Maybe she flew on her broom…. Whether she was a good witch or a bad witch had never quite been settled. For now, I assumed she was a good witch with ruthless tendencies.

  I opened the door and stepped back, my eyes wide as she strolled in—giving me the once-over as she passed.

  “First of all, you’re not fired, so you can wipe that look of panic off your face.”

  I shut the door and followed my boss into my apartment. She looked somehow shorter here. Maybe it was the lighting.

  She continued as she scanned my place, inspecting books on my shelves and frowning at my desk in the living room. “I do not excel at this type of thing, so I’ll just tell you what I think. Then we can sit on the couch and drink tea and do whatever it is that women friends do when one of them is having a crisis. Here is what I think: you’re having a colossal overreaction. Mr. Fitzpatrick is on his way to New York as we speak. He took the first flight out of Ireland this morning—I imagine he did so once he discovered you’d left. When he called me, he sounded angry, yes. But he also sounded concerned about you, about your being forced into taking on his account, forced into a relationship for the sake of his career.”