Not You It's Me

by Julie Johnson

  “You’re crazy,” I say, dismissing her immediately and glancing at Shelby. “She’s crazy, right? Back me up here, Shelbs.”

  Shelby shakes her head. “Sorry, I have to agree with the preggo-nutcase on this one. No way would Chase Fucking Croft care about some random girl enough to follow up. If he’s really the CEO now, he’s got, like, a billion assistants working for him who very easily could’ve tracked you down on his behalf. Instead, he arranged to see you in person — in his private office, no less — to explain himself. I don’t care how many times you deny it — he’s interested in you, Gemma. Even if he pushed you away and gave some spiel about obligations and distractions… it still sounds to me like he’s torn.”

  “Torn?” I ask, almost afraid to hear her answer.

  “Between wanting you and wanting to keep his life as simple as possible, now that he’s back in the States and smack-dab in the middle of sorting out his family drama.”

  “Right,” Chrissy jumps in. “He knows he wants you, but he also knows he can’t have what he wants. Eeek! This is even better than the daytime TV soaps I’ve been watching. Passion! Intrigue! Family secrets! Forbidden love!”

  Mark snorts. “No matter how many times I hear you ladies dissect and overanalyze a man’s motives, it never gets even marginally less insane.”

  Chrissy’s smile fades as her gaze moves to her husband. “You want crazy?” Her eyes narrow. “I’ve still got three more weeks of bed rest. I’ll show you crazy.”

  Mark just grins at her affectionately and heads to the kitchen to retrieve the bottle and refill our glasses. And sitting there, sipping wine with my best friends, for the first time in two days — or maybe longer, if I really let myself think about it — I feel a weight lifted off my shoulders, because I know, whether it’s Rat Bastard Ralph or Chase Freaking Croft or nobody at all, I don’t need a man in my life to be happy.

  Not when I’ve got them.

  ***

  In case you’re wondering, I know it’s rare — the three of us staying friends, despite being in totally different phases of life. I’ve seen many BFF-bonds fall by the wayside when one girl got married, leaving her former bestie alone to struggle through the mires of single-hood without a wing-woman. And I get it — it can be tough, sometimes, to relate to Chrissy’s discussions of diaper cream and Shelby’s complaints about Paul never making it home for her all-vegan dinners, just as I’m sure it’s hard for them to hear about my previously pathetic love life which, until this week, consisted of a string of men just like Ralph.

  Maybe it’s because, even when they were both single, they never really understood my choices when it came to love — probably because they couldn’t grasp the fact that I wasn’t looking for it.

  See, people always make the mistake of assuming that sex and intimacy go hand in hand, that you can’t have one without the other, but they’re wrong. My friends talk about sex like it’s this perfect, intimate act, with fireworks exploding behind eyelids and worlds shifting and mountains moving. They’re always making love, never fucking. As if a girl can’t simply enjoy the mechanical processes that lead to a good orgasm without wanting a rock the size of Texas on her left ring finger and a Pinterest board full of organza dress ideas.

  They don’t talk about the satisfaction of sex without strings because, even though men do it all the time, for some reason it’s still somewhat of a scandal if a modern woman’s number of sexual partners exceeds single digits.

  Here’s your meaningless, mind-blowing orgasm, served up with a side of slut-shaming and unfair societal expectations. Enjoy!

  Maybe they choose to forget. Maybe they’ve watched too many movies, read too many romance novels, believed too many COSMO articles promising that sex is always this beautiful, soul-baring act. And, hey, maybe it is like that for some people, every single time.

  Somehow, I doubt it.

  The bottom line is, sex is sex.

  No intimacy required.

  And, I, for one, have always been perfectly okay with that. This brave new world of sexual satisfaction without emotional investment has suited me just fine, even if Shelby and Chrissy think I’m defying the laws of nature because I’m not actively searching for The One.

  I’ve always thought, a little cockily, that I know something they don’t.

  That there is no One. That he doesn’t exist on any level other than fantasy.

  But as I sip down my wine and look at Mark’s hand on Chrissy’s pregnant stomach, as I hear the softness in Shelby’s voice when she calls Paul to let him know she’ll be home late…

  It makes me wonder if I really know anything at all.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Nothing

  I push against the door to my apartment and meet resistance — it sticks in the frame, like something’s blocking it from swinging open. A forceful bump of my hip jars it wide enough for me to squeeze through, and I step over the threshold onto the mountain of papers that have been jamming my entryway. My eyes bug out as I see literally hundreds of business cards, media release forms, and contact sheets mixed in with a pile of mail several times its normal size, and at least six newspapers.

  What the hell?

  I’ve gotten more mail in the past two days of dodging my apartment than I have in the two full years I’ve lived in this building. Slamming the door closed behind me, I drop into a crouch and begin digging through the mess. Evidently, the reporters found a way inside the complex — or they bribed my neighbors to do their dirty work for them — because my apartment is starting to look like something out of an episode of Hoarders: The Early Years. There’s so much paperwork, I can’t even see my entry mat. A cursory glance tells me most of it contains contact information and interview requests for different talk shows, radio spots, and primetime sit-downs, all requesting an exclusive. All wanting a piece of the Gemma Summers story.

  Don’t hold your breath, leeches.

  The newspapers, all of which seem to feature front-page stories about me or Chase, or me and Chase, are a bit tattered, likely from being shoved roughly through the thin mail slot in my door, but I catch sight of a bright blue sticky-note fused to the front of The Boston Globe and peel it off. I have to squint to read the shaky, sloping cursive scrawled across the tiny turquoise square.

  Gemma dear,

  I’ve been collecting these since this whole shenanigan started! Got The Times, The Globe, The Herald, and The Wall Street Journal. Thought you’d want them. Don’t worry, I kept a bunch of copies for myself — well, only the sections about you, I used the rest to line the litter boxes. Oh, and feel free to bring your new man by to meet Bigelow anytime! He looks like a cat person.

  Mrs. Hendrickson, 1C

  I let the note flutter to the floor as a hysterical giggle bubbles up from my stomach and bursts from my throat. This whole thing — the reporters, the attention, the hiding out from my own apartment — hasn’t really fazed me until this point. But there’s something about the image of Chase Croft, in his billion-dollar clothes, crouched down on Mrs. Hendrickson’s musty carpeting, playing with her giant tabby cat, that sends me careening right over the edge.

  I collapse back against my door, sitting amidst a pile of papers I’ll never read and strangers’ phone numbers I’ll never use, and laugh until tears are glossing over my eyes and I can barely pull a breath into my lungs.

  ***

  It’s strange to be back in my apartment after essentially living at Chrissy and Mark’s for the past two days. Everything at their place is white, glossy, and pristine — the polar opposite of my space, which is dripping in different colors, patterns, and textures.

  The apartment is cramped, but it has high ceilings, which lends the illusion of more space than I actually have, and there’s only one window, but it’s big and west-facing, so it lets all the mid-afternoon sunshine pour in. My floors are a hodgepodge of wood — oak and maple, dark and light — with one section blending straight into another with little rhyme or reason. I’ve got a red
couch, a blue refrigerator, and not a single cup that matches in all my cabinets. There’s a funky, asymmetrical coffee table I found at a flea market plunked in front of the sofa, and instead of a television, I have one full wall covered in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, every nook and cranny jammed with my favorite, well-worn paperbacks. The rest of my wall space is covered in oil canvases — some complete, some half-finished, all my own handiwork.

  It’s a mess.

  I love every square inch of it.

  After I’ve gathered up the papers by the door and tossed them in the recycling bin in my pathetically small kitchen, I head straight for my bedroom. Really, it’s less a room than a closet, separated from the rest of the apartment by glass-paned French doors. My queen-sized bed takes up almost the entire space, with a peacock green duvet and decorative blue and red feathered throw pillows. There’s no room for a dresser, so I got creative when I first moved in and suspended a horizontal ladder from my ceiling along the far wall. My colorful wardrobe hangs from the rungs like some kind of strange piece of modern art you’d find at a hipster gallery in the Theater District.

  Artsy but functional.

  I collapse face-first on my bed and fall into a restless sleep, in such a stupor after the emotional day — and the two glasses of wine I chugged — I almost forget to set my alarm. If I’m late for work tomorrow, especially after I ducked out early this afternoon, Estelle will either fire me or kill me — which would just be the cherry on top of an already fantastic week.

  At the very least, I suppose I can be thankful that the reporters seem to have given up their quest. When Shelby dropped me off on her way home from Mark and Chrissy’s, I fully expected I’d have to sneak through the back alley, as I had this morning. It was a welcome surprise to find the camped-out news vans had gone home for the night, and the front stairs of my walkup clear for the first time since the story broke.

  See, Gemma? It’s already blowing over — soon, that kiss with Chase Croft will be a distant memory. You’ll probably never see him again.

  For some reason, the words I meant to be reassuring only seem to upset me more as I drift off to sleep.

  ***

  The sound of my phone buzzing pulls me back into consciousness.

  This is becoming an unfortunate habit.

  Without opening my eyes, I throw out a hand and grope for my cell on the nightstand. As soon as my fingers close around the glittery, plastic shell of my three-generations-old iPhone, I yank it beneath the covers and click it on, peering at the too-bright, spiderweb-cracked glass through slivered eyes.

  It’s not even seven, and there’s already a text message lighting up my screen.

  Chrissy: You should see this.

  Evidently, her Google Alert is still working, because there’s a link pasted beneath her words, and when I click on it, I see the story has only been up on the web for about ten minutes. I squint at the tiny caption at the top of the page, feeling my heart begin to pound inside my chest.

  CROFT’S CONFESSION — CAUGHT ON CAMERA!

  There’s a video clip below the headline, and after a moment of hesitation, I jab my finger viciously against the screen to queue the footage. The clip is choppy, but I recognize the Charles River running paths in the background, which doesn’t make much sense at all until Chase rounds a bend in the trail and jogs into view — whoever’s filming clearly knows his morning exercise route.

  He looks great. There’s a dark stain of sweat on his gray t-shirt, his calf muscles stand out in sharp definition each time his sneakers hit the pavement, and his hair is damply disheveled in a way I’ve never seen before. I have to hand it to him — he never breaks stride when the reporters step onto the path and ambush him, their cameras already rolling; he just blows past, as if they aren’t even there, as if he’s done this so many times in the past, it doesn’t even faze him anymore.

  The video stream gets bumpier as the cameraman picks up speed, running after Chase while his partner hurls questions rapid-fire.

  Are you dating Gemma Summers?

  Have you spoken to her since the kiss?

  Are the rumors true? Have you two really moved in together?

  I try not to freak out when they mention my name or the blatant lies associated with me, telling myself they’ll say anything to get a response from him. My grip goes so tight on my iPhone, I worry I’ll create even more fissures in the ruined screen, but I can’t stop watching. I’m relieved when Chase doesn’t turn, doesn’t react at all to their invasive questions. He knows better than to give them what they want.

  Well, I thought he did.

  But then, he hears the next questions.

  Should we expect an engagement?

  Will there be a new Mrs. Croft anytime soon?

  I’m pretty sure the reporter was trying to be funny, but Chase doesn’t seem to get the joke. As soon as those words leave the reporter’s mouth, Chase slams to a halt and despite the grainy quality, I see every muscle in his body go tense. He turns slowly to face the camera, and his face is set in stone — his expression harder, harsher than I’ve ever seen it. For a moment, he almost looks like he wants to kill the reporter who asked the question. Apparently, I’m not the only one who thinks so — the video bobs as the cameraman takes a hasty step backwards, away from Chase.

  Something about those questions clearly struck a raw nerve.

  But then, quicker than lightning, Chase’s lips twist up into the ghost of a smile — totally at odds with his eyes, which are still flat with anger. His voice is charming and more than a little condescending, when he speaks.

  “Listen, boys, I’m gonna say this once, and then I’m never gonna address it again — mostly because there’s nothing to address. She seemed like a nice enough girl and she was in a tough spot at the game…” He shrugs, like he’s barely given it a thought. “I figured I’d help her out. But as for anything serious…” His smile turns wolfish. “Well, you boys know better than anyone, I’m not a one woman kind of man. Certainly not for an entire lifetime. Hell, sometimes not even for a single night, if you know what I mean.”

  I feel my stomach clench and hug my blankets a little closer.

  Everyone in America knows exactly what he means — according to Chrissy, he was photographed on more than one occasion going home for the night with multiple women hanging on his arm, back in his party-boy years.

  “So, no relationship?” The reporter asks again. “Nothing’s going on with you two?”

  “Less than nothing.” Chase grins full out — that heart-stopping, panty-dropping grin — and starts jogging backwards away from the camera. “And, for argument’s sake, let’s just say, if I ever am going to settle down… I doubt it will be with a girl like Gemma Summers.”

  His words hit me like a bucket of ice water.

  Done with the interview, he winks, turns, and jogs away down the path without another word. Seconds later, the video feed clicks off, and I’m left staring at the blank screen of my phone, feeling like an idiot of the highest order when tears start to prick at the back of my eyes.

  Chase Croft is an asshole, jerk, buttfaced idiot.

  But I’m an even bigger idiot for letting him get to me.

  ***

  The answering machine beeps in my ear and I take a deep breath.

  “Hi, Ms. Scarpozzi, it’s Gemma Summers from Point de Fuite. I’m just calling to let you know that I’ve finished drafting your paperwork. You’ll receive an invoice sometime within the next two business days. Once the wire transfer is complete, we’ll notify you, and then you can come pick up your new Lalanne. If you’re unable to pick it up, we offer delivery services for an additional fee. It was a pleasure working with you and your husband! Feel free to give me a call back if you have any questions, and thanks again for your business. Bye, now.”

  I place the handset back in its cradle and file the Scarpozzi’s paperwork away in my desk drawer. The wealthy newlyweds uprooted to Boston a few months ago from suburban New Jersey, and
came to the gallery with money to burn, determined to trade their cheetah-print for Chagall. I like them a lot, regardless of the fact that they’ve just earned me a commission big enough to pay my rent for the next month and put some much-needed cash flow back in my bank account. I also admire their attempt to reinvent themselves, even if I can’t fathom why anyone would want to join New England’s über-wealthy, old-money, elite circles. I doubt they’ll be successful, no matter how many expensive pieces of art line the walls of their penthouse. It’s a poorly kept secret that if you aren’t Boston bred, with ice blue Yankee blood in your veins, you’ll never ascend beyond the bottom rungs of the city’s high-society ladder.

  My eyes lift to scan the gallery space, moving from the high ceilings to the whitewashed walls to the giant skylights overhead, where light filters in like translucent honey. I’ve always loved it here — a good thing, considering it’s been my mandatory home away from home for the past few years. The constant changeover as art pieces move in and out, along with the influx of new clients, assures that every day is fresh, like the first brushstrokes on a blank canvas. It keeps things busy — and keeps me from going out of my gourd with boredom.

  Never a dull moment at Point de Fuite.

  Not that you’d know it, looking around right now.

  The place is practically deserted. One woman came in while I was on the phone — I can see her wandering around, glancing fleetingly at paintings with about as much interest as I’d show a sheet of basketball stats, but other than that, the gallery is completely empty. I give her another look-over and feel dread creep up my spine. I can’t explain why — it’s like some deeply ingrained instinct is telling me, from just one look, that this woman is a snake in the grass. Something I’m biologically programmed to avoid at all costs.