Chronicles of a Lincoln Park Fashionista

by Aven Ellis

  I nod, following orders like a good soldier would.

  Then I hear Deke approach Rebecca and Creepy Spence.

  “Rebecca, could I ask you a couple of more questions for the documentary?” he asks.

  I hold my breath. What’s he doing?

  “Oh, sure,” Rebecca says. “I’d be delighted to help.”

  “Great. Now just look straight at that lens and answer my questions,” Deke says. “Question one. If you’re so overworked that you have to pass stuff on to Avery, how do you have time to hang out over here and talk?”

  Oh my God. He did not just ask that!

  “W-What?” Rebecca gasps.

  “I was just curious,” Deke says easily. “I could hear you talking over here for a few minutes, yet you just made some comments on camera about being ‘saturated’ with work. Do you care to clarify those remarks?”

  I clamp my hand over my mouth. I begin to silently shake with laughter as I picture the expression of horror on Rebecca’s face.

  “Uh, I was just talking with Spence about some work-related issues,” Rebecca says quickly.

  “Like Happy Hour?” Deke asks.

  I stifle a snort. Rebecca doesn’t respond. And I’m sure Creepy Spence is still sitting in a stupor, staring at Rebecca’s boobs like he always does.

  “Uh, you, know, on second thought, this documentary is really about Avery,” Rebecca declares. “I really don’t have any other comments for you.”

  “Fine,” he says. “I’ll let you get back to work then.”

  I quickly bolt from my spot and hurry back to my desk, plunking my rear in the chair and picking up my red pen before anyone can suspect anything.

  Within seconds Deke is back, holding his camera at his side. When his eyes meet mine, we crack up.

  “That,” I declare in a whisper, “was priceless.”

  “You should have seen her face,” Deke says quietly, grinning at me. “She’s full of shit. Overwhelmed, my ass.”

  I laugh again and so does Deke. And I find the moment to be nice. Maybe I don’t have to dislike him after all.

  “Okay,” he says, picking up his camera and turning the light back on. “We’ll pick up where we left off, and remember, I’m not here.”

  Deke’s words jolt me back into reality. No, he’s not here. Deke doesn’t want to know anything about me. Although he kind of redeemed himself by busting up Rebecca’s flirt fest, he’s still the rude videographer who wants no part of my world.

  To be honest, I don’t care, not after he said all those awful things about me. So I go to work, knowing that for the rest of the summer, our relationship is going to be exactly like this.

  I’m the subject.

  He’s the videographer.

  We don’t exist outside of those terms.

  And that’s exactly how our relationship is supposed to be.

  Chapter 5

  I hurry upstairs to my apartment, juggling a bag of takeout, fresh-cut flowers, and bottle of white wine. Issues of Marketing Week and Brandweek—ones I swiped out of the recycle bin at work—are sticking out of my messenger bag.

  So I have everything I need to show the entire world what a sharp, sophisticated, urban career woman I am. One who comes home after a long day at work and eats takeout from the local sushi bar. One who savors a glass of wine while perusing Marketing Week, as I’m so dedicated to Premier Airlines and my career advancement.

  Suddenly I hear footsteps on the flight of stairs above me. Within seconds I’m face-to-face with Sullivan. Of course, I knew it was him coming down the stairs, as I could smell his cologne wafting ahead of his presence.

  Mmmm, I love fine men’s cologne. Especially Sullivan’s, because it is strong and masculine, just like him. Of course, it’s better when you don’t smell it ahead of the person, but rather have to get close to them to pick up their scent—

  “Hey, Little Avery, are you inviting some lucky guy over for dinner tonight?” Sullivan asks, grinning at me.

  Why is he smiling at the idea of me having another man over for dinner? Shouldn’t Sullivan be jealous?

  I shove my irritation aside and smile coyly at him. “Who wants to know?” I ask smartly.

  Sullivan steps closer. As his cologne further invades my airspace, I quickly come to the conclusion I might be overtaken by toxic fumes if I nuzzled his neck. He obviously hasn’t learned a little goes a long way when using strong cologne.

  “Well, Avery, I would hope that I would be the first guy you invited up for dinner,” he says sexily, leaning against my door and very close to me. “But in order for that to happen, I’ll have to ask you out first.”

  My heart nearly explodes inside my chest. Oh my God, Sullivan is about to ask me out. Be cool, be cool, be cool, I tell myself, trying to ignore how my hands have started to tremble with excitement.

  “So you do,” I say, moving my chess piece across the board.

  “So why don’t you put your stuff away and let me take you to dinner tonight, Little Avery,” Sullivan says.

  Damn it! Why does he want to go tonight? Why does Sullivan ask me out on the one night that Deke is scheduled to come over here and shoot?

  Then I pause for a moment. Wait a minute. Shouldn’t Sullivan plan a date with me? Who is he to assume I can dump my plans at the last second to go off with him?

  But then I study him, all tall, dark, and luscious, and immediately decide that Sullivan can get a waiver from dating etiquette this one time.

  “Sorry, I can’t,” I say, leaving an air of mystery about why I can’t accept his invitation hanging in the air. I put my key in the lock to open the door, but suddenly it’s opened from the other side.

  “You might want to hurry up and get in here,” Sasha declares, tossing her chestnut hair to one side. “Your videographer just called and said he’s downstairs. I buzzed him up.”

  I blush as I feel Sullivan’s eyes on my profile. I secretly wish I could kill Sasha for blowing my self-created intrigue.

  “So it’s documentary night?” Sullivan asks.

  “Yes,” I say, desperately wishing I could say I had a date coming over. “I’m working, so to speak.”

  “Oh,” Sullivan says, his green eyes sparkling. “Well, I’ll let you get to it then. Have a good evening.”

  Then I watch with disappointment as Sullivan trots down the stairs.

  “Shit,” I mumble under my breath, for more than one reason. I glance down at my watch. Deke’s early. I still have to put these flowers in water.

  I hurry inside the apartment, throwing my messenger bag on the stool underneath the breakfast bar. Then I take the flowers out of the cellophane wrapper, hastily shoving them into a vase with no water. I’ll add that after Deke leaves. But fresh flowers seem like what the perfect, stylish, mature single woman would have in her apartment.

  “Well, I’m going to be in my room,” Sasha declares stiffly, “as I want no part of this cheesy reality show. But once your cameraman leaves, we need to talk about the utility bills. I’ve just divided everything out to the penny and logged them in my Excel spreadsheet. I’ll monitor who pays the odd penny each month so it’ll be evenly distributed. Because I won’t pay the odd penny every month, Avery.”

  Good God, she needs to keep track of the odd pennies? Is this what some of my sorority sisters meant when they warned that Sasha was “difficult to live with?”

  Suddenly there is a knock on my door, and I know it’s Deke. But just to ensure it’s not a deranged lunatic wanting to strangle me and Sasha, I call out to make sure.

  “Who is it?” I yell out.

  “Deke Ryan.”

  “Come in,” I say.

  Deke opens the door and steps inside. I quickly study him, as he didn’t shoot me at work today. Today’s T-s
hirt is a Chicago Cubs Eastern Division Championship shirt, circa 1984, and a pair of khaki cargo shorts.

  “Hey,” he says, nodding at me. Then he glances at Sasha as he puts down his gear. “Hi, Sasha.”

  Sasha stares at him for a moment. “Are you trying to visualize me in my string bikini?” she finally asks.

  I bobble my wine bottle, dropping it in the sink and making a loud clang. “Sasha,” I hiss, mortified.

  “I think he’s trying to undress me with his eyes,” Sasha declares, folding her arms across her chest.

  “What?” Deke asks, looking completely shocked. “I just said ‘hi.’ Does that now mean I’m undressing you with my eyes? Because if that’s the case, then I just undressed some dude I passed coming up the stairs.”

  I burst out laughing. I turn to Deke, who glances at me, and then he starts laughing, too.

  “I know you were staring,” Sasha declares haughtily. “But I won’t be around for your shoot tonight. I want no part of this reality TV crap.” Then Sasha turns on her heel and storms off to her room.

  I draw a big breath of air and look at Deke apologetically as I hear her door slam shut. “I’m so, so, sorry about that.”

  He shrugs. “It’s not your issue to be sorry about.” He kneels down next to his case and opens it up, getting back to business.

  Now that we’ve done this a couple of times, I know what he’s doing. Deke’s getting out the mic, the transmitter, and the audio gear. We’ll follow the same routine: I clip the mic and transmitter on, he’ll check the audio. Then he’ll confirm the lighting is good and he’ll start shooting every boring detail of my life for the next hour.

  Hmmm. Maybe if I eat my sushi really, really, slowly and savor my wine that could kill a whole 45 minutes.

  I take a moment to touch up my makeup while Deke gets the equipment ready. Then he stands up, handing me the mic and transmitter box.

  “Here you go.”

  “Thanks,” I say, taking them from his hands.

  “Okay, for tonight,” he says, picking up his headset and holding it for a moment, “I just want to shoot you during a normal evening at home.”

  “Mmm-hmmm,” I murmur, clipping the mic on the bra strap underneath my fitted white J. Crew shirt. Then I see that Deke’s put on his headset and is ready for the audio check, so I just start talking. “Well, I don’t know how interesting it will be, as I’m just about to eat dinner and review my issue of Marketing Week.”

  Deke puts down his camera. He removes his headphones and watches as I uncork the wine.

  “You read Marketing Week at home?” he asks.

  I furrow my brow in annoyance as I hear the skepticism in his voice.

  “I’m not just a Lincoln Park fashionista,” I challenge, jerking the cork out of the bottle. “I’m a career woman. My workday doesn’t end at 5 PM.”

  Deke slowly rubs his fingertips along his stubbled jaw line. “No, that’s not it. I just think it’s fascinating that you read Marketing Week at home and In Style at work.”

  Shit. I quickly pour some wine into a glass and take a big gulp. Comeback. I need a comeback . . .

  “I flip through In Style at work because it’s quick and easy to read during my lunch break,” I blurt out. “I need to digest Marketing Week, to break down the strategies other companies are using to see if they are applicable to my position.”

  Then I take another sip of wine and think that I’m brilliant on my feet. So take that, Deke Ryan.

  “So you apply ideas from Marketing Week to your floater assistant position?” he asks, hoisting his camera back up on his shoulder and turning on the light.

  GAH! Why is he being so impossible tonight?

  “I’m soaking up potential career knowledge,” I reply smartly.

  Then I notice that he’s about a couple of feet away from me and I can’t smell any cologne on him. Hmmm. Doesn’t Deke know that women like cologne? Not that it has to be as potent as Sullivan’s, but something would be nice—

  Anyway, I digress. It’s not like I care if he’s wearing cologne or not.

  “We’re rolling,” he says, interrupting my thoughts. “Tell me what you’re having for dinner tonight.”

  Oh, Jesus. This, without a doubt, is going to be the most painful hour in television history. Not only that, but I know my mother will call as soon as this airs and ask why I’m not cooking something fabulous from the Food Network Magazine subscription she started for me last month.

  “I’m having sushi tonight,” I say, withdrawing a container out of a paper bag. “I love yellow tail and salmon, and I have a California roll, too.”

  I grab a plate from the cabinet and transfer all of my sushi to it using my chopsticks. Normally I’d eat it out of the container, but since I’m in favor of not giving my Martha Stewart-like mother a heart attack, I decide to eat off a plate.

  I take a seat at the breakfast bar. The camera light glows on my face as I pick up Marketing Week and flip it open.

  Oh God. This is torture. He’s going to shoot me putting every piece of sushi into my mouth and try to spin this as entertainment. Then something peeking out of the mail pile catches my eye. Oh, I got a new copy of FLIRTY! magazine in the mail. Oh, I really would rather read that instead. There’s a great relationship advice column in there, and I love to read it when I’m eating dinner by myself for entertainment.

  No. That’s exactly what Deke Ryan would expect Avery Andrews, brainless fashionista, to do. So I will not, under any circumstances, look at it.

  I listlessly flip another page in Marketing Week and eat another piece of sushi. As I do, I quickly turn to him, alarmed.

  “Can you hear me chewing?” I suddenly ask.

  “No, don’t worry about it.”

  Alrighty then. I skim another page of Marketing Week and decide I can’t take it anymore.

  “You know, I ought to go through my mail before I get too caught up in my business reading,” I say, reaching for the pile. I carefully flip through the bills and then come to FLIRTY! I’m just skimming the headlines on the cover when the intercom buzzes.

  I furrow my brow. “Who is that?” Curious, I move over to the intercom and hit the button.

  “Who is it?” I ask.

  “A-A-Avery!” Bree’s familiar voice wails into the intercom. “I . . . I . . .” Then she bursts into sobs.

  “Bree?” I ask in confusion. “What are you doing here? I thought you were moving here this weekend.” Then I shake my head as I listen to her sobs grow louder. “Never mind. I’m coming down to meet you. Hang on.”

  I totally ignore Deke as I race down the stairs. I can hear him following me, but I don’t care. Something is horribly wrong with my best friend if she’s in Chicago tonight.

  I jerk open the door to find Bree on my doorstep, completely disheveled. Her long, black hair is half falling out of a hasty ponytail on her head, and her green eyes are totally bloodshot from crying.

  “Bree!” I cry, alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

  The second I speak to her, Bree crumples. She throws herself into my arms and begins to sob.

  “A-Alex . . .” Suddenly she steps back, a confused expression on her face. “Are you taping your show now?”

  “Ignore him,” I command firmly. “He can’t use any of this footage without you signing a consent form, so don’t worry about it.”

  “Oh, I’ll sign it,” Bree snaps, practically shouting her response in Deke’s direction. “I want the whole world to know what an asshole my ex-boyfriend Alex is.”

  I gasp. “What?” Then I shake my head. “Let’s go upstairs, and I’ll get you some wine. Then you can tell me everything.”

  Bree sniffles loudly and nods. I put my arm around her and guide her upstairs, with Deke still shooting us as he trails behin
d.

  Once we get back inside, I steer Bree to the couch. I quickly pour her some wine and sit down beside her, handing her the glass.

  “Thanks,” Bree mumbles, sniffling again. She takes a sip and then glances around the living room. “Do you have Kleenex?”

  “Sure,” I say, popping up and grabbing the box that is sitting on the kitchen counter. I bring them back to her and she takes one, blowing her nose.

  “Bree, what’s going on?” I ask, squeezing her cold hand in mine. “What has Alex done?”

  “He was supposed to be The One,” Bree cries, hysteria rising in her voice. “He was going to leave Tucson and come to Chicago, and we were going to start our lives together here.”

  “So what happened?” I ask. Bree had met Alex her freshman year at U of A, and ever since then it had been Bree and Alex. Alex and Bree. And Bree had suspected that Alex was going to make it official with an engagement this year.

  “I went over to his apartment last night, to make sure he had everything packed and ready for the movers today,” Bree said, her eyes welling with tears again. “When he didn’t answer the door, I texted him, asking where he was, if he was ready to move, you know.”

  “And then what happened?” I ask softly.

  “He texted me this,” Bree says, picking up her phone and accessing her messages. She hands me her cell and I read it:

  Not moving to Chicago. You’re not the one. I’m going home to LA. I wish you all the best.

  “What?” I shriek, horrified. I view the message on the phone, stunned. Oh my God. Alex dumped her via text? And waiting until the day before the movers came to do it?

  That bastard. That fucking bastard. If I could poke his eyes out with my chopsticks, I would. How could he be so cruel? How could Alex do this to Bree, just run away like a spineless coward?