The Opposite of Me

by Sarah Pekkanen

  Suddenly something clicked into place; Cheryl had made an abrupt mystery trip last week. Not even her assistant knew where she’d gone. Had she flown to Aspen and engineered a meeting with Fenstermaker? Had their relationship started then?

  Oh my God, I thought, staring at her storyboard. She’d had the winning strategy all along. She was smarter than me after all.

  I raised my champagne bottle in a mock salute: Nice going, Cheryl. You’ve single-handedly set women’s lib back fifty years. I closed my eyes and tilted the bottle to my lips. I nearly toppled over and had to grab the back of a chair for balance. The champagne was hitting me at last, mercifully dulling the edges of my anger and pain.

  “Don’t think for one second I’m going to call you boss,” I muttered, waving my champagne bottle at Cheryl’s ad. Probably not the most effective workplace threat ever, but I was going with what I had.

  I was turning to leave, to finally go to the blessed sanctuary of my bed, when I heard footsteps in the hallway. Better not be a burglar, I thought grimly. Actually, I half-hoped it would be. It would feel good to smash the champagne bottle over his head, to unleash some of the rage and hurt I was carrying inside. I looked down at the bottle. It would be a shame to waste it, though. Maybe I could just finish it before I knocked out the burglar. I tilted up the bottle and drank as quietly as I could, which ended up being at about the same decibel level as a marching band, since I lost my grip on the chair, fumbled for Cheryl’s storyboard, and brought it crashing down on top of me as I fell, thumping my head on the floor for a grand finale. This was not shaping up to be my day.

  “Lindsey? Is that you?”

  In an instant Doug was beside me, pulling the stupid storyboard off my head and helping me to my feet.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Fine,” I said, squinting at him with one eye closed. And I would be, if he’d just stop swaying back and forth.

  “I’m glad,” Doug said softly. He kept hold of my hands as he rubbed his thumbs along my palms. Doug made Bill Clinton look like a nun wearing a chastity belt at a Victorian tea party. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “I was just leaving,” I said, but I didn’t move. “What are you doing here?”

  “Forgot my cell phone in my office,” he said. “I didn’t want to leave it here all weekend.”

  I nodded.

  “Rough night, huh?” Doug said. His chocolate brown eyes seemed sweet and sincere, and his voice was low.

  “Yeah,” I said glumly. What was the point in pretending?

  “Everyone thought you should’ve been named VP,” he said, still holding my hands.

  “Thanks,” I said, swallowing hard. I’d be having this same conversation with every single person I worked with for the next month. Some people would be genuinely sorry; others would be happy to see me fail. I didn’t know which would make me feel worse.

  I couldn’t bear to see the pity in Doug’s eyes, so I turned my head and stared out through the conference room’s glass walls. The streets below were as busy now as they had been at eight-thirty this morning. The bucket-thumping guys had been replaced by an old man wearing clothes that were so faded and worn he looked like a ghost blending into the gray building behind him, but his saxophone shone like spun gold. A new shift of cabs took up the battle for lane space, and people clogged the sidewalks, heading to restaurants and bars and jazz clubs, ignoring the guy in a giant hot-dog costume trying to hand out flyers. At the corner a man and woman stood arm in arm, waiting for the light to change. As I watched, he reached out and tilted up her chin for a kiss. But he didn’t kiss her lips. He rained slow kisses on her forehead and cheeks and on the tip of her nose. The gesture was so tender and intimate it made me ache with longing.

  No one had ever loved me that way.

  Right now Bradley and Alex were leaning close together, talking and laughing. The candlelight would play across her high cheekbones and pick up the gold glints in her hair. People at the restaurant would recognize her, like they always did, and Alex would smile graciously and pose for a picture and crack a joke that would make everyone laugh, because Alex could be kind and funny as well as self-centered. Bradley would be dazzled by her; I was certain of it.

  Would my friendship with him ever be the same? I wondered. Sure, we’d still be buddies, just like back in tenth grade, when we’d spent hours passing back and forth a bowl of popcorn and the answers to trigonometry problems. Back then Bradley and Alex had moved in different social orbits; she’d been as real to him as a pinup poster. And, if I were being brutally honest, that was by my design. I’d encouraged them to remain strangers.

  How many times had I suggested to Bradley we study at his house instead of mine? How careful had I been to invite him over only when Alex was at cheerleading practice or out on a date? Even on prom night, I’d made sure he picked me up after Alex had already left. I didn’t want him to see me standing next to her in her long golden dress, the one that clung to every curve of her body.

  Now Alex knew how funny and smart and good Bradley was. Now they’d connected. They’d probably talked more tonight than Bradley and I had in the past two years. The next time I went home and saw him, would he ask about Alex? Would he oh so casually suggest we invite her along? Would he look at me . . . and wish he were with her instead?

  Or would she and Bradley stay in touch after tonight? Would she discover that Bradley liked honey on his popcorn instead of butter, which sounded disgusting but tasted unbelievably good? Would he—this was the thought that sent an arrow stabbing through my core—would he look at her the same way he used to look at me?

  “You okay?” I’d almost forgotten Doug was still there. I nodded.

  “Then what’s this?” He released one of my hands and reached out with a fingertip to wipe away the tear rolling down my cheek.

  “Nothing,” I said. “It’s just been a really long night.”

  Doug was still holding my other hand, I suddenly noticed. Now would’ve been a perfect time to announce I had to leave and march briskly out.

  “Beautiful view,” Doug said. I turned to him and saw he was starting straight at me. Oh, God, I silently groaned.

  But I looked back at him. I kept looking back.

  “Your hair is coming down,” Doug said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen your hair down.”

  He reached up and unclipped it, letting it fall around my shoulders, then he slowly smoothed it back from my face with his big hands. I closed my eyes so I didn’t have to look at him. This was awful; this was sleazy, cheesy Doug. Well, sleazy, cheesy, gorgeous Doug. Still, I had to stop this, immediately.

  Or at least in the next two to five minutes. Because his fingers were rough but his touch was so exquisitely gentle, and the combination was intoxicating.

  “You look pretty like this,” he said, his hand lingering on my cheek.

  I opened my eyes. The room was dark, but moonlight flooded in through the glass walls.

  “I do?” I whispered.

  You know how in that moment before something momentous happens—like when a solemn-faced doctor tells you to sit down, or when you’re waiting to see if a pink line shows up on a pregnancy test, or when a car comes skidding toward you on an ice-slicked road—time seems to sputter to a stop? That’s what happened as my fingers encircled Doug’s wrist. Everything around us seemed to fade, leaving just me and Doug in a spotlight of color in a world that had suddenly gone black and white. He was so close I could hear the faint noise he made when he swallowed. I could see the patch on his chin he’d missed when he shaved. For several heartbeats we stood close together.

  “You’re beautiful,” he breathed, staring at me with those melted chocolate eyes.

  That’s when I grabbed him, hard, and kissed him.

  He tasted delicious, like cinnamon and red wine, and his broad back felt strong under my roving hands. All my pent-up feelings from the day washed away as waves of pure lust crashed over me. Now the only thing I coul
d think about was how quickly I could tear off Doug’s shirt and run my hands over his chest.

  “Lindsey,” he breathed. “I never thought—”

  “Don’t say anything,” I begged. If he came up with one of his recycled lines, the moment would be ruined, and I wanted so desperately to lose myself in it, to let the delicious sensations overtake me and crowd away my pain.

  Doug’s lips were soft and warm, and when the stubble along his jawline scraped the sensitive skin of my neck, shivers rippled through my belly. He kissed me until I was almost delirious, while his fingertips slipped under the neckline of my dress and drew gentle, tantalizing circles around my shoulders. I leaned against the conference table, my head thrown back and my eyes closed, as his fingers moved lower and lower.

  “Beautiful,” he whispered again as he reached behind me and unzipped my dress. I reached back and unhooked my bra and impatiently tossed it aside, then pulled Doug close to me so I could feel his skin against mine. Sensations bombarded me: the warmth of his skin, the nearly unbearably exciting feel of his lips biting my earlobe, the electric touch of his fingers as he slid my dress down to my hips. I wanted this. I wanted this so badly it made me weak.

  Doug’s fingers froze.

  “What’s that?” he whispered.

  Oh, God; had he discovered my granny panties?

  “Did you hear that?” he whispered.

  I shook my head, my arms still wound around his neck, feeling groggy and disoriented. Why’d he stop? I didn’t want him to stop, not ever.

  “Shit,” Doug muttered, and he let go of me so abruptly that I almost fell over again. He bent down and grabbed his shirt off the floor just as footsteps approached the conference room.

  “My storyboard should still be in here,” someone—Cheryl—was saying.

  “Can’t wait to see it,” a man responded. “The fifty-million-dollar storyboard. I want it framed.”

  The light flicked on, and I squinted as its sharp brightness jabbed at my eyes.

  Cheryl was standing in the doorway, staring straight at me. And next to her was Mr. Dunne. A beat too late, I crossed my arms over my chest. The lust drained from me as quickly as if someone had pulled a plug.

  Cheryl found her voice first.

  “Lindsey?”

  I stared at her dumbly.

  “Well, I’ve never seen this side of you,” she said snidely, looking pointedly at my chest.

  “It’s—it’s not what it looks like,” Doug stuttered. He’d never been able to think on his feet; I’d even put words to that effect in one of his performance reviews.

  I turned my back and pulled up my dress with trembling fingers.

  “I can explain,” I said over my shoulder.

  “I’d like to hear it,” said Mr. Dunne. “In my office. Two minutes.”

  Then he turned on his heel and walked away.

  Five

  MR. DUNNE SAT BEHIND his mahogany desk in his enormous corner office, the one with a full dining room and a private bathroom outfitted in cool blue granite and stainless steel. It was the office I’d had my eye on; I’d always figured in another ten or fifteen years, when Mr. Dunne retired, I’d be in line to get it.

  Mr. Dunne was the nicest of our three agency founders. He looked a bit like Santa Claus, with his shock of white hair and full belly, and he even played the part on Christmas Eve, when he walked through the office handing out goodies to everyone who was still working. Last year he’d given me a candy cane and an orange, and when I’d said, “Thanks, Mr. Dunne,” he’d laughed and said, “Who’s Mr. Dunne? I’m Saint Nick!” It was kind of sweet, in a clueless-grandfather sort of way.

  But right now his mouth was a tight, disapproving line.

  “Sit down,” he said, gesturing to a chair in front of his desk. I quickly obeyed. This was going to be awful. I’d never felt so humiliated and ashamed. I was desperate to get this over with as quickly as possible.

  “I want to tell you how very sorry I am,” I began. I could hardly look him in the eye. I’d flashed Saint Nick, and I knew I’d think of it every single time I saw him.

  “Nothing like this has ever happened before and I assure you it will never—”

  “Lindsey,” he cut in, his voice a whip. “Doug is your employee.”

  I blinked in surprise. Where was he going with this?

  “Well, technically, yes,” I said. “But he doesn’t report directly to me.”

  “I don’t care who the hell he reports to. He works on your team,” Mr. Dunne said. “What were you thinking?”

  “It was a mistake,” I said, dropping my head in shame. “A terrible, terrible mistake. One I’ll never—”

  “I know you’re disappointed tonight, but that’s no excuse,” Mr. Dunne said. “You’ve left me with no choice.”

  Anxiety exploded inside of me, cutting off my airways and making me gulp shallow breaths. Suddenly I knew what he was about to say, and I had to stop him; I had to change Mr. Dunne’s mind.

  “Doug started it,” I babbled. “Ask him; he’ll tell you. Of course that doesn’t excuse what I did, I’m not saying that at all—”

  “I have to let you go,” Mr. Dunne said.

  His words hit me with the force of a thunderclap ripping apart the sky. I opened my mouth, but no words came out. My entire body started to shake.

  Mr. Dunne exhaled. “Lindsey, I like you. You do good work. But aside from the fact that you’ve violated basic standards of decency in the office, you’ve left this agency open to a major sexual harassment lawsuit. You know we have a policy in place to prevent this sort of thing.”

  “Doug won’t sue!” I said, my voice rising to a hysterical shriek. “Let me talk to him; I swear he won’t sue.”

  “No, you will not talk to him!” Mr. Dunne thundered. Now he was really angry; spots of red appeared high on his cheeks. “Do you want him to say you asked him to keep quiet? Do you want him to say you threatened him? Do you want to drag the name of this agency—the agency I built from scratch—through the mud of a lawsuit?”

  “No, no, no, I didn’t mean that,” I said, unconsciously clasping my hands, as though in prayer. God, how could I possibly be making this worse? I had to think clearly now; everything depended on it. I had to sell myself like I’d never sold anything before.

  “Please, just give me another chance,” I begged. I would’ve gotten down on my knees if it would’ve helped. I would’ve kissed his feet and brought him coffee every day. I would’ve done anything to keep my job. How could this be happening to me?

  If I’d been anxious before, waiting for Mason’s announcement, it was nothing compared to this. Panic spread through my body like wildfire. I was shaking so hard that even Mr. Dunne noticed, and his expression softened slightly.

  “I’ll work harder. I’ll do better. I swear I’ll never do anything like this again.” My voice was a shriek.

  “I believe you,” Mr. Dunne said. “But it’s too late. The damage is done. You knew about our policy. You understood the consequences. I’m sorry.”

  “No, no, no,” I said. “You can’t mean that. You can’t. Please.”

  “Lindsey, I’ll give you a reference,” he said. “That’s all I can do.”

  “But—” I started to say.

  “You need to leave now,” Mr. Dunne cut me off. “Please pack your things immediately. This isn’t easy for me, either.”

  I stared at him, my mind reeling. I had to fix this, I could still fix this, I could—

  But Mr. Dunne was standing up, and walking over to his door, and holding it open for me to leave.

  And just like that, in the snap of a finger, my life was over.

  Six

  I STAYED IN BED for three days straight. My insomnia was cured; now I had the reverse affliction. All I wanted to do was sink into a deep, dreamless sleep. I drew my shades so darkness and silence wrapped themselves around me. I turned off my phone and let my mail pile up in a heap in my hallway and slept for hours and hours, waking on
ly to pull another quilt out of my closet and add it to the pile on top of me, or to sip from the glass of water on my nightstand. Like a severely injured patient who is put into a medically induced coma to speed healing, my body was self-medicating, taking me away from the reality of my pain and into the blessed reprieve of sleep.

  Once I heard someone pounding on my door, but I put my pillow over my head, and eventually they went away. I dove into sleep again, the hours passing like seconds, my exhausted body soaking in rest.

  On the fourth day, I made it all the way from my bed to the bathtub, taking small, careful steps. I kept the lights low and filled my tub with almost unbearably hot water and added an entire bottle of Molton Brown bubble bath. I brought a cup of chamomile tea with honey into the tub and soaked for an hour, my mind still numb. Just making the tea and filling the bath had exhausted me all over again.

  I lay in the tub, not thinking about anything but the patterns my fingers were aimlessly tracing in the bubbles. I felt insulated from everything, like a fragile china cup rolled up in layers of newspaper and tucked between sheets of Bubble Wrap. Nothing could hurt me in my little apartment; I was safe and protected and warm. When my fingers turned soft and raisiny, I pulled the plug, put on an old T-shirt, and toddled back to bed, my movements as slow as an old woman’s.

  Hours later, I awoke to hear the door of my apartment opening.

  I didn’t have the energy to move. If it was a burglar, he could take everything, as long as he left my bed. I wanted to stay in it forever, hugging my soft blue cashmere pillow, my mind in a fuzzy place where reality couldn’t intrude.

  “Miss Rose?”

  It was the superintendent of my apartment building.

  “Are you in here?”