To See You

by Rachel Blaufeld

  “This isn’t basketball, Pete. You know that, right?”

  He ignored me.

  “Can I get you guys anything?”

  A scantily clad waitress with long red hair sidled up next to Adam. He was the good-looking one of our gang. By day, he was a lawyer at one of the studios, and by night he was our resident manwhore.

  His words, not mine. Seriously.

  “Wings, mild with bleu cheese, coupla orders, doll,” Peter yelled.

  The ginger glared at him.

  “Ignore him, honey.” Adam stood close to her, running a hand through his shaggy blond hair as he winked at her. “We’ll have some wings, please, and how about another bucket of beers?”

  “Anything for you,” she said, swinging her hips from side to side as she headed back to the kitchen.

  “Guess who’s going home with her tonight?” Adam asked us, then turned both of his thumbs toward his cashmere-clad chest and declared, “This dude.”

  His eyes damn near sparkled at the prospect, and I wondered what it felt like to have women be such an easy conquest for you.

  Once the waitress was out of sight, Adam turned his gaze back on me. “So, if a Hollywood superstar isn’t enough for you, does that mean you met someone else? A better woman?”

  “Nah. Thought I might have, but nope.”

  “Interesting. I notice your hair’s all styled. Was she there tonight?”

  “Adam, what are we . . . two girls trading secrets over coffee? Shut the fuck up and get ready to play pool. Hopefully the funny guy is almost warmed up.”

  He held his palms up in the air in mock surrender. “Okay, tough guy. Don’t shoot me for asking.”

  “Didn’t you hear me? Shut the fuck up.”

  I didn’t need any crap from Mr. Wonderful. All I wanted to do was eat some wings (because I was still hungry), play pool, and forget about earlier.

  I wasn’t having much success, though. The reel of Charli running out on me was stuck on replay in my head.

  Like a fool, I hid in my hotel room after running out of the restaurant. I had to order room service because as it turned out, sushi wasn’t filling.

  The next morning, I took the first flight out, rushing back to the Big Apple as if something incredible was waiting for me. In fact, nothing but work was waiting.

  The premiere was on a Thursday and I was originally scheduled to stay in California until Saturday, so when I slipped back into the office late Friday afternoon, I was greeted by a lot of raised eyebrows.

  I didn’t let it bother me. Grabbing my messages and the proofs waiting for me on my desk, I turned right around and headed home for a lonely weekend, intending to fill it with work and exercise.

  When I got home that night and checked my messages like I usually do, I had an e-mail from him.

  FROM: LaytonG@darksidemusictracks.com

  TO: Charleston_Richards@BubblePOP.com

  SUBJECT: Did you get home safely?

  Charli –

  I want to believe it was merely bad luck our evening was interrupted. Either way, I wanted to make sure you got back home safely.

  Can’t wait to read your review of the movie.

  —Layton

  P.S. Look what my dog did to my tuxedo loafers.

  Attached was a picture of a big, fuzzy golden retriever holding a half-chewed Ferragamo loafer in his or her mouth.

  I didn’t even know Layton had a dog. How could this mean anything between us if I didn’t know something like that?

  Well, for starters, you didn’t even give him a chance to say he had a dog.

  Janie had wanted to hang out that night, but I refused. Instead, I worked out and ate a quick dinner, then went through the rest of my work e-mails.

  For the rest of the weekend, I ran myself ragged, collapsing into bed each evening, crossing my fingers I was exhausted enough to ignore the e-mail sitting so innocently in my in-box.

  The one I didn’t respond to.

  Either way, I wanted to make sure you got back home safely.

  That sentence played on repeat in my head, plaguing me for five days until I finally gave in. By Tuesday, I couldn’t outrun or outspin my demons anymore.

  FROM: Charleston_Richards@BubblePOP.com

  TO: LaytonG@darksidemusictracks.com

  SUBJECT: I’m back. Thanks. Thank you

  Thank you so much for your concern.

  Thanks for asking. I did get home in one piece, and have been swamped with deadlines.

  It’s been raining here all week and I miss the LA sun, but it’s good for my workload.

  Fondly,

  Charli

  P.S. Hope you made your dog pay for your shoes.

  I’d returned to hitting the backspace key more than any other, so I hit SEND before I mentioned anything but the weather or my work, and especially not the reason why I fled.

  He knew it was an excuse.

  Either way, I wanted to make sure you got back home safely.

  He definitely knew. My leaving was the proverbial elephant in the room, a big one growing by the minute.

  I went to bed that night without checking my e-mail again—an occupational hazard but an emotional safeguard.

  Ever since I got back to New York, when I thought back to our moments in the car or seated at Zao’s, I felt myself smiling, my chest warming, and my defense mechanisms melting. There was something about this guy. I liked him, but I shouldn’t.

  My mind ticked off all the reasons I shouldn’t like him as I slipped into a hot bath on Wednesday night, wanting to wash myself of my guilt and maybe relax a little while I was at it.

  First, I was a fitness editor in New York City. And Layton . . . well, he was anything but fit.

  Second, I had a big career ahead of me, something my mom never did after meeting my dad. Wasn’t that why I became so convinced I needed the career first . . . from watching her? Now she’d changed her tune, but I wasn’t changing.

  Third, I couldn’t chase around this earth for a dude, something my mom did for my dad. I hadn’t graduated from high school a year early and college three semesters too soon for this . . . to be saddled to the fun-loving guy. When I finally got hitched, it would be to some corporate bigshot, just like Janie said I should.

  Wallowing in remorse, I covered my face with my hands, splashing soapy water all over the place.

  I’m a bitch. And I’m not even happy being one. I’m allowing my friend to lead me around, telling me what to do.

  In the short time I’d known this huggable guy, Layton Griffin, did he ever make me feel like he’d want a woman to sacrifice her dreams for him?

  No, but we were certainly nowhere near that stage.

  That stupid night. Actually, it was a beautiful night, and I was the stupid one.

  “Ugh,” I muttered and sank deeper in the water.

  When my phone dinged on the side of the tub, I shook my hand free of water and picked it up. It had been a few hours since I’d checked my messages, and I couldn’t stand not checking anymore.

  My in-box was flooded with work e-mails. Some women’s-only marathon was coming to Central Park, and the magazine was going to be a sponsor. Larissa knew I was close with Janie, and of course, she wanted me to ask the Royal to put us all up for the event, plus a few contest winners. I hated when she made me do that—I was a writer, not a concierge—but this was New York and it was all about who you knew.

  There were a few more e-mails, all regarding July’s posts, which were already almost filled. We had two more spotlights open, and the pit of writers under me were all clawing to get a feature. So-and-so wanted to interview Katie on her fitness routine. No to that . . . nothing to do with Katie.

  Another writer wanted to do a feature on dangerous hikes in Colorado. Could be interesting, but would he travel or only do research?

  And of course, Layton replied.

  What the heck? I squinted and read the subject twice.

  FROM: LaytonG@darksidemusictracks.com

 
; TO: Charleston_Richards@BubblePOP.com

  SUBJECT: Harriette is getting a job

  Charli –

  Glad you got back to me. I was beginning to wonder if you’d been sold to Mexico.

  Weather has been nice here, but the smog gets to you after a while, so don’t be too envious.

  And yes, Harriette—my golden—is scouring LA for temp work to reimburse me for my shoes. In the meantime, she’s working her way through a few bones.

  She’s a good girl, for the most part. Not much of a guard dog and a bit mouthy, but she’s dependable.

  —Layton

  There was no PS or funny video, not even a “Lay” for his signature.

  Deciding I’d successfully blown off the guy, I sank deeper in shame and the tub.

  Although I didn’t feel one bit relaxed.

  At the crack of dawn, I climbed onto a spinning bike at the gym, connected my heart-rate monitor, and went the fuck after it. My legs spun as if my life depended on it.

  Actually, my sanity did. I was going out of my mind with regret and self-loathing. My only peace came when I was dripping sweat and physically exhausted. My normal once-a-day exercise routine turned out to be completely unsatisfying in the week since I returned from LA, and I’d upped the ante in response.

  By the time I exited the spin studio, I was soaked to the bone and dreading the coming weekend. At least I had today at work to keep my schizophrenic mind occupied. I ran home, showered, and took a cab to work. As I took the elevator upstairs, my phone beeped.

  JANIE: Drinks tonight. No excuses. See you at the Royal, Craig’s buying. 6:30.

  I didn’t even answer. Tonight was Friday, the night Janie and I always got together. There was no hiding from her anymore.

  I plowed my way through the day, wielding my red pen and my disapproval of this or that until almost six o’clock. Then I raided the fashion closet, borrowing an emerald-green blouse and a pair of dark green satin Blahniks as I promised Rivvi, our fashion editor, I’d bring them back in one piece.

  Freshly changed, teeth brushed, and perfume spritzed, I made my way to the Royal. I indulged in another cab, my mood already too soured to brave public transportation. Inside the hotel, I made my way to the bar and only smiled when Craig set a giant glass of wine in front of me.

  “That kind of week?”

  “Oh, Craig, you have no idea.”

  “Work stuff or boy stuff?” He gave me a boyish grin.

  “Me stuff,” I answered.

  “Want to spill? I’m game if you are, and I’m cool if you’re not.”

  His brown eyes were warm like maple syrup, enticing me to dive in, but I just couldn’t go there. I hated myself enough, and if I went into my bitchiness with Craig, I knew he’d never look at me the same.

  “I’m just going to marinate my troubles in this wine.”

  “No problem, babe.” He winked and went to the other side of the bar to grab an order.

  Click, clack, click. I could hear Janie coming from a mile away.

  “Hey there, Char. How you doing, honey?” She squeezed me in a half hug.

  “I’m good.” I only half smiled.

  It was also a night of half truths. I wasn’t good or well or even just okay.

  “Hey, Craig,” Janie called out as she sat down next to me.

  “Martini?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now for real, tell me how you are.” Janie leaned in close and stared me down.

  Her eyes were perfectly lined in black, her lids dusted in glitter, her pink lips were two shades lighter than her blouse, and she smelled like morning dew. I looked at her, really looked at her, preferring to concentrate on her perfections than my imperfections.

  “Char,” Janie whined, dragging me from my funk.

  “I’m okay. Just confused, you know?”

  “No, I don’t know. Honestly, I’ve never seen you like this.” She downed a gulp of her martini and studied me. “You’re always the one so confident and collected. I’m the spaz, but now you’re all over the place emotionally.”

  “I can’t explain it. When I met Layton on the plane, I was just . . . so mean. I never considered myself judgmental, but there I was turning my nose up at him and ready to toss him out of first class.”

  “Char, you’re a young, bright, and successful New Yorker. Do you really need to obsess over some slobby music guy?”

  My hand shot out and covered her mouth. “Stop! Don’t do that. See? That’s my exact point. He’s a decent guy, went all out of his way to show me a nice evening, and then even worried if I got home when he knew I was bullshitting him.” It all came running out of my mouth without a filter or a breath. “And,” I stuck my finger in the air, “what do I do? I just shit on him because why?”

  “Don’t do this,” Janie pleaded.

  “Because I hate myself. All my life, I rushed through everything—school, internships, jobs—just to get here and I hate it. Freaking despise it.”

  I guzzled my wine and eyed Craig, who ran over with the bottle and filled me back up, no longer offering to listen to me.

  Janie glared at me. “So, get a new job or something, but don’t go off the rails because of some guy who means nothing.”

  “That’s just it, J. Why can’t he mean something?”

  She crooked her finger and signaled for Craig to come back. “Craig, doll, isn’t Char a ten? She’s got everything, the whole package. Brains, beauty, breasts . . . even with all that running.”

  I’m a 32B. I hardly call that breasts, but whatever.

  “Don’t answer that, Craig,” I said with a scowl. “Don’t feel like you have to lie.”

  Janie smacked my arm. “Seriously, stop. You do. Nod your head if you agree, Craig.”

  He nodded like a good puppy and escaped to the other side of the bar. The place was now full of people—sophisticated New Yorkers, yuppies and intellectuals, all pretending to be the city’s best.

  Blech. But isn’t that what I always wanted? What I always did? How I always acted?

  “Look around you,” Janie said, motioning around the room with her hand. “This is your life, not some big, gentle, introverted music guy.”

  My stomach churned, bile made its way up my throat, and I had to go.

  “You know what? I don’t feel so great. I have to go.”

  I stood and grabbed my purse and jacket. Slipping my arms through the buttery leather, I couldn’t help but remember Layton sliding his tux jacket over my shoulders. If I thought hard enough, I could smell him—the rain or dew, the cinnamon and the beer.

  Janie stood and tried to wrap me up in her arms. “Charli, I’m sorry. Please don’t go.”

  “Seriously, it’s fine. I’ve just had a long week.”

  Tossing my bag across my body, I hightailed it out of there.

  And went straight home to Lucy.

  FROM: Charleston_Richards@BubblePOP.com

  TO: LaytonG@darksidemusictracks.com

  SUBJECT: God, I’m so sorry

  Layton –

  I’m so sorry. I’m not even sure why I feel compelled to write this, but I do. There’s that and I’ve had some wine. Okay, a little more than some.

  I wasn’t very nice when we met on the plane, and yet you tried to be kind. You started a conversation with me, and were kind enough to find me and check on me after. Yes, a bit stalkerish, but also persistent and sweet. Although, I have to be honest, I didn’t want to appreciate it.

  Then, like some kismet way of the world, we were thrown together at the premiere, and again, you were nothing but sweet. Our abbreviated sushi dinner was one of the best I’ve ever had in a long time. But once again, I threw your niceties away in the trash because at the end of the day . . . I’m a bitch.

  So, I’m very, very sorry. More than you will ever know, Layton. I have no excuses, nor are there any worthy.

  I guess you were right. I’m not so happy with what I’m doing right now, but this was my plan, so I’m locked in.
/>   That’s about it.

  Forever sorry,

  Charli

  P.S. I miss your videos and pictures of your dog.

  I pressed SEND before I could regret it or second-guess it any more than I already had, and curled up in my perfectly lavender bed and fell asleep to the sound of Lucy humming.

  Harriette lay in the corner, a paw covering her eye. Bingo! She didn’t like it when I jacked myself. I know, I know, she’s a freak of a dog.

  Hey, I’m her master, and I assumed it was because she only liked to think of her and me.

  Long story short, I’d been beating it pretty regularly all week.

  I’d tried to drown my imperfections and insecurities in a cute, short-ish ginger after Charli hit the road—not the waitress, but a quirky, short, sci-fi-loving one more suited to me.

  She laughed at my jokes and made googly eyes at me all night in the back of Bastion’s; enough so, I felt bold enough to take her home. She lived in the neighborhood too, and led me up to her condo where I proceeded to be unable to perform.

  Like, not at all. There was no movement whatsoever. My dick was set on an unattainable sexy blonde, and no pixie redhead was going to replace her.

  I chalked it up to whiskey dick and hit the road faster than I thought possible. Carrie insisted on typing her number in my phone, and my fucking dick demanded I delete it.

  This was a true story. I was legitimately addicted to a woman I couldn’t have . . . not to mention she didn’t want me.

  Then I’d fucking heard from Charli on Tuesday, and while it was all business and nothing spectacular, my lower appendage was back to doing the thinking and making demands. Now I had a twice-a-day yank, Charli front and center in my mind, lithe and seductive but into me. Way into me. In my fantasy, she’d moan my name, scratch her fingers down my back, and tug on my hair.

  Shit. And just like that, I blew my wad everywhere.

  That was pretty much status quo. All because of a girl who couldn’t even let me know she was home safely until four days later.