Pride and Pancakes

by Ellen Mint

  “What?”

  A smile twisted up his lips and he whispered, “I love you.” Before Beth could return the sentiment, Tristan kissed her. Burying her hands in his hair, plying his lips with her wanton hunger, pressing her chest to his, it was more than heat that swirled through his veins. His heart had found the succor it’d been seeking for these past two lonely months in the only place he’d ever thought to look.

  “I missed you,” she said, wafting her fingers over his fashionable stubble. Beth pulled her bottom lip into her mouth, biting down until a smear of peach-pink lipstick stained her teeth. She was adorable and finally live in front of him.

  One year was nothing in the scheme of the universe, or even a life, but those twelve months had changed everything for him. Even when he’d been plagued by doubts and regrets, she’d been there. And when she’d cursed the very idea of setting out to write a book, he’d propped her up as best he could. It hadn’t been easy, the studio insisting they make hay from his unexpected solo on live TV, but when the lights had been dimmed and the makeup wiped off, they’d had each other.

  Twelve months back, he’d walked into that snowy cabin thinking his life would change. It was to be done via studio deals, charts, touring and recording. He never imagined it’d be his heart that’d change most of all.

  “Shame about the mud,” Beth mused, gazing at the supposed winter wonderland that bore a decidedly brown hue.

  “Well, I…” He was about to say he had no intentions of leaving the cabin when a wet dot land on the back of his neck. After wiping at it, he strained his head up to the clouds and watched as a dozen white flurries tumbled from the sky.

  “Is that…?” Beth asked, but Tristan barreled to her. Gripping her waist, he hauled her over his shoulder. Her infectious laugh shook his entire frame as he carried her to the bedroom, where they could finally try out the shaking bed as snow buried the cabin for a perfect winter. Tristan knew he never need worry as long he had Beth in his arms, her love in his heart…and a box of pancake batter in the pantry.

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  667 Ways to F*ck Up My Life

  Lucy Woodhull

  Excerpt

  If there’s anything more calamitous than being fired by a scumbag, it’s having to be polite about it. I bit back all manner of choice words, lest a barrage of ‘screw yous’ and ‘blow it out your asses’ smack the venerated editor Carmichael Burns in his florid face. He was the king of choice words, after all. What could I say to him that he hadn’t already spewed across the New York Times bestseller list?

  Besides, sweet Dagmar Kostopoulos never, ever used words like that.

  “But… But…” I did manage to get out, my mouth as dry as his pretend ennui. “You’re promoting Jazmine into my role? How can that be? I have a Masters in English from Columbia.” And she had a certificate from the Brooklyn Irony Emporium.

  Carmichael laughed at my earnestness, as he always did. He pitied me because I actually did my job studiously and worked hard, even as he told me I kept him honest. And why shouldn’t he chuckle? Jazmine had banged this ponytailed ball of pretension the moment she had gotten the job as his secretary, and now she’d ‘earned’ mine as editorial assistant. She wouldn’t know a good nonfiction book platform if it bit her on the butt. She’d let him bite her butt, though. I cracked a mirthless smile at my stupid inner monologue, then sucked in a breath because…horrors—I had just lost my job.

  The whole room went hazy. My head spun like water down a toilet bowl.

  “You’re too expensive for me, Dag,” declared the man who’d given me a raise not a month ago. “Jazmine has a certain…flair for this work. You don’t need a degree to develop je ne sais quoi.”

  I didn’t know je ne sais quoi was French for ‘showed her thong like it was 1998’.

  No—I would not be angry at Jazmine. Or her thong, which had been hella cute. We’d both known how to get promoted in Carmichael’s office. Hell, the entire publishing industry understood that you gave head to get ahead with him. She’d been willing to go there, and I hadn’t, for I’d thought my stellar performance would bypass his editing-couch antics.

  The blame lay entirely with him.

  He who smirked at me anew and said, “I know you’ll land on your feet, Dag. I’m really doing you a favor. You can do so much better than me.” His modesty rang hollow and dull. His last four books had debuted at number one everywhere—tell-alls from globetrotting manly adventurers, over-sexed Instagram stars, and jailed politicians.

  “No!” I chirped. I smiled my summa cum laude, brilliant-girl smile. “No. You need me, Carmichael. Promote Jazmine, of course”—that last bit came out a little teeth-grindingly—”but I am an essential part of this team. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to get back to the business of selling books.”

  I stood and buttoned my navy blazer. Yup, in a year and a half on the job, I’d found a future bestseller myself from a long-lost Kardashian cousin with a combo sex/Mason jar recipe blog. She made great salads, although I hadn’t ever tried one naked in a hot tub as Khandye had recommended.

  He said, “I do.”

  I blinked sweetly down at him. “What?”

  “I do mind. You’re fired, Dag.”

  A thousand rational arguments crowded my brain and I had to squeeze my eyes shut to form them into dynamic sentences that showed, not told, him how absolutely necessary I was.

  I—

  He—

  No. Nope.

  This was not happening. Not happening!

  “Carmichael—” I blinked and realized he no longer sat in front of me at the rugged desk that used to belong to Ernest Hemingway. He was now perched outside the office on the arm of Jazmine’s chair. Her cackle blew into my ears on a frigid breeze.

  Carmichael had called me frigid. He’d grabbed my boob at the Christmas party and called me a frigid slut when I wouldn’t advance my career by screwing him. I’d asked him how one could be both frigid and a slut. Probably a bad move, since he was now firing me four days later.

  Rage bubbled through my gut, into my throat, a wave of heat that nearly knocked me over. I clenched my teeth and willed myself to call him what he was. An aging hipster douche sniffing the pretention of his own backside while selling bullshit to the lowest common denominator for only fourteen ninety-five.

  Not that it hadn’t been super fun while it lasted.

  I couldn’t find the words to defend myself, to talk him out of it. I performed excellently at my job. I’d found talented writers and changed their lives for the better. I’d worked endless hours, putting aside my own personal life in the process.

  All for nothing.

  I squeezed my eyelids shut as I shuffled past them. Jazmine sing-songed, “Bye, Dag-marred.”

  The eyes of the entire floor bored holes into my back while I gathered my purse and coffee mug. Nobody said a word—the Swiss cheese would stand alone.

  What the heck did I do now? I’d never gotten a B, much less a pink slip. And my colleagues needed the largesse of Carmichael—they couldn’t afford to anger him or Jazmine now. But Dagmar, well, Dag-marred was literary roadkill, so Don’t let the door smack your backside, darling. I had many friends and amazing colleagues in this building, and I knew we would stay in touch, no matter the manner of my departure. I waved to them all without being able to meet anyone’s eye.

  Moments later, I shivered in a gently falling snow, not even remembering the trip down in the elevator from the lofty sixty-third floor. I pulled out my phone and dialed the first number, the tears already bubbling from my face. “I got fired, Blade.”

  “I’m in a meeting, babe, I’ll have to call you back. Wear something sexy when I get home—I’ve got great news.” The line went dead.

  Snotcicles formed in my nose and I wondered what he’d heard me say. At least one of us had good news. We’d just moved into our first apartment together, and yesterday I’d thought that my
life was going perfectly.

  Maybe Khandye Kardashian would give me a job stuffing Mason jars with dildos.

  I hailed a cab, reconsidered the expense since I’d lost my income, but decided that I would economize another day. Right now I was blubbering on Fifth Avenue while clutching my ‘You Have as Many Hours in a Day as Beyoncé’ mug.

  Time to slink home.

  * * * *

  Four hours later, nose raw and eyes aching from the world’s longest scream-cry-punch-a-pillow fest, I greeted Blade in my only Spandex dress. I’d never actually worn it—my friend Mel had forced me to buy it—because it was just so tight, you know? I could see a rib through it, and I wasn’t really a ‘revealing ribs’ kind of girl. But getting dressed up for no reason had offered a little comfort. It’d been preferable to rage-stroking over Carmichael the @#&%.

  Blade picked me up the moment he swept into the apartment and I clung to his wide shoulders and soft blond hair. He was a doctor, just as my dad always wanted, so I had that going for me, which was nice.

  He set me down and said, “Break out the champagne, baby. I’ve got a new job at the hottest plastic surgery practice in Beverly Hills!”

  Surprise melted my knees and I nearly collapsed onto the hardwood floor. “What?” When had he applied for this? “What?”

  He trotted into the kitchen and I followed behind. With a satisfied smirk, he said, “Got the word this morning. I’m going to be a partner.” Pop went the champagne we’d bought to christen our new place. He drank straight from the bottle. “Sun and fun—no more of this snow shit for me.”

  Blade hated the snow so much that I always had to shovel out his car for him.

  I leaned against the kitchen counter for support, my stomach regretfully empty from not eating all day. “How stupendous! This is perfect timing.” I laughed and took my swirling head (and the rest of me) to the cabinet to fetch our two champagne glasses. I held them out for him to pour. “Carmichael fired me today. Can you believe that? Fired me to promote Jazmine.” Blade knew how I felt about Jazmine. Even though she wore the best shoes—always tall and vibrant, like she was a Sex and the City character. If I were an SATC character, I’d probably be Miranda’s work ethic.

  Blade pulled a face at my news and didn’t pour the champagne. “Guess you shoulda slept with him, huh?”

  “Ha ha.” My arms shook as they still held the empty glasses. Man, did I feel queasy. I’d skipped lunch in favor of crying. He took another pull of the booze and still didn’t pour it. I put on my best happy face. “But now it doesn’t matter—we’re moving to L.A.!”

  “I’m moving to L.A.”

  That queasiness seeped from my stomach to my arms, legs, throat. I opened my mouth to speak but, for the second time today, nothing came out.

  He took the champagne bottle past me and into the living room. I took a deep breath. Another. He was just being oblivious, he hadn’t really meant what it sounded like. He could be that way—selfish. But it was because he worked hard to save sick people. From their lumpy noses.

  With a forced laugh, I followed him. “Blade, do you know how that almost sounded? It sounded like you were moving to L.A. without me.”

  “Oh.” He turned around and tilted his head, a sheepish smile on his magazine-model features. “Yeah.”

  I waited for more.

  I waited for more.

  My heart started to race and I waited for better.

  He nodded his head and said, “Yeah.”

  “Yeah, what?” It came out so shrill, and I tried never to be shrill with Blade. Guys don’t marry shrill—that was one of my dad’s words of wisdom.

  Blade plopped onto the couch and shrugged. “I’m sorry about this, babe. But there’s literally nothing I can do.”

  My shrill increased by twenty percent. “That’s not how one uses ‘literally’. Blade, I lost my dream job today. My job that I’ve been working years to get, and thousands of hours to keep. I’ve yearned to work with books since I was a little girl.”

  “Look at it like…it’s a whole day of new beginnings for you. And for me. You’re not really an L.A. kind of girl. I mean, you’re a brunette.” He chortled at his ‘joke’, and I lost my grip on reality. The world clicked into fast forward and I slipped to my knees. I fought the hot vomit simmering in my throat.

  “Oh, geez, Dagmar. Why can’t you be happy for me? This thing with us hasn’t really been working out anyway.”

  What what what what what? “This is some kind of mad joke. We just paid first and last on a new apartment!” I screamed.

  “Ugh, I hate it when you get emotional.” He thunked the champagne on the coffee table. “So you’ll find a roommate. Maybe then you’ll stop bitching about me doing the dishes.” He held up his hands. “I told you, I can’t do chores because I must save my hands for surgery.” Then he disappeared into the bedroom.

  Clarity. My entire existence became a camera lens shifting into focus:

  My hard-nosed, perfectionist boss hadn’t been pushing me to make me a better editor, he’d just been an abusive asshole, embittered that I wouldn’t bang him.

  My focused, intense doctor boyfriend wasn’t absent because he was working hard, he’d been avoiding me and seeking a job three thousand miles away.

  I cleaned up after these two men not as a supportive, brilliant helpmate, but as an overachiever desperate for the approval that was abundant in the beginning, in order to snare me, but that had stopped flowing long ago.

  How could I have been so impossibly deluded?

  I threw up, all over the hardwood floor that I would, apparently, be paying for solo with funds from my non-existent job.

  So I heaved even more, accompanied by the plaintive cry of “Ew, gross” from the douchebag who’d had sex with me just this morning.

  No telling how long I lay there next to the puke, throat on fire, while wearing my sexy dress. Blade passed me on the way to the kitchen several times, once craning his neck to look up my short skirt.

  My cell phone rang. Could it be that somebody loved me? That someone cared enough to call and check on me? I got on my knees and crawled to the coffee table to answer. “Hi, Dad,” I said, tears slipping out with the words.

  Blade yelled, “You gonna clean this up? It’s nasty! You see—this is why you’ll never get a man to stay, Dag.” He breezed by with another bottle of booze.

  My dad sighed on the other end of the phone. “What’s wrong, Dagmar?”

  “I got fired and Blade is moving to L.A. without me.” I sank next to the coffee table and set my forehead on it. “I can’t wait to see you in a few days.” Christmas was next week, and the plan was for us to take the train to Connecticut to visit. “Hey, maybe I should just come right away. I’ve got nothing here, anyhow.”

  “Well…” It was the way he said it. It was the way everyone had said things to me today—hesitant syllables with a side of two-by-four. “I’m going to Hawaii with your sister and her family. They bought me the ticket, isn’t that generous?”

  Without my go-ahead, my cheek slid off the table and I descended slow-mo style to the floor. This is where I would reside now—me and the floor that would never move to Southern California without me. My butt stopped fighting gravity and sank all the way down. “Dad… Can’t I come?”

  “They can’t really afford you too, Dagmar. Not with two kids and his parents. You’d know that if you had a family.”

  “I do have a family. You and Vanessa are my family.”

  More sighing. “Dagmar, you never get it. She has children. A husband. She’s doing something with her life. I just don’t know why you twins turned out so different.”

  We weren’t twins so much as actors in the sad melodrama The Golden Child and the Scapegoat.

  I wanted to cry and hurl again, but, apparently, I’d been drained dry. The hollow ache that used to be my eyes twitched, but emitted nothing.

  My loving father kept talking. “All those degrees of yours, and for what? You don’t have
a job anymore? Selling those vile books?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “And Blade is a man, Dagmar. He wants a wife who’s supportive, who will give him children. Children are the most important thing you can do in this life, not gallivant around New York doing…whatever. Reading other people’s writing? What is that? Get with the program, and then you won’t be alone on Christmas.”

  As talks went, this one ranked up there with, “At least the play was funny, Mrs. Lincoln.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I whispered.

  “You should spend the holidays thinking long and hard about what’s important in life and make the right choice for once.”

  He hung up. He hadn’t even invited me on my own dime. Neither had Van.

  I turned onto my back and stared at the ceiling. It had those little sparkles in its craggy white peaks. Laughter erupted from my dry, cracked lips. It kept coming, and coming—the cackle of the damned. I’d been fired. I’d been dumped. And I was worthless because I didn’t have a husband and babies. Twenty-eight years old, and every single dude in my life had given up on me.

  All my life, I’d worked endlessly in schools and jobs to achieve, just as Beyoncé (of my coffee mug fame) had told me to do. The more Dad lauded Vanessa for being prettier, the higher my GPA. The more cars he bought her, the more I volunteered at the soup kitchen. I’d been praised by guidance counselors and bosses as a paragon of hard work. Valedictorian of everywhere. I was going places!

  What was the frigging point? No, to heck with being so namby-pamby. What was the cock-sucking point?

  Or non-cock-sucking, as it were.

  It was like…I’d gotten so used to the unhappiness and the withholding of affection that I thought it was normal. That I deserved it. My stomach twisted with self-hatred. Self-hatred, even now! Even when I knew I should hate them instead.

  I managed to get myself to my knees. Blade called out from the bedroom, “Clean up that gross shit, Dagmar. I’m not gonna tell you again.”

  My eyelids closed and a peace soothed itself into my angry shoulders. My inner ‘give a crap’ bucket stood depleted and empty. For perhaps the first time in my life, I didn’t care anymore. About anything.