by Virna DePaul
I’d imagined all the beautiful girls with beautiful bodies and skimpy little bathing suits that would be at the beach. I saw them dancing and drinking and guys flocking to them in droves. But one look at myself in the mirror, and I saw only my deficiencies. I wouldn't fit in with those girls, the type of girls Lee was attracted to. Everyone would know I was a misfit.
So I told Bryce I got called back for a great opportunity for an internship. And I left.
But what had Bryce meant, that that was the last time Lee had had his head out of his ass?
Had he meant Lee had invited me because he had feelings for me?
Because that is ridiculous.
Lee, who’d always had his pick of gorgeous girlfriends and still did, thinking of me as anything more than a friend?
Nope. No way. I’ve clearly been drinking too much to even consider it.
I have to get Lee out of my head.
So… Time for more wine.
After cleaning up, I spot my laptop on the coffee table in the living room. Maybe writing will take my mind off Lee. I fetch my laptop and wine bottle and open the screen.
As always, it opens up to my food critiquing blog. My job as a lawyer gives me this gorgeous NYC loft, expensive clothes, and vacations to exotic locations whenever I get magical vacation time. But my food blog gives me passion and excitement and fulfillment. I tolerate law. I love food.
In a court room, I have to watch what I say. I have to be diplomatic and professional. On the blog, I can say whatever I want, especially because of my anonymous status. For instance, in the court room I couldn't say, “Lee has a juicy ass. Too bad the same can't be said about his pork chops.” But I could type that into my blog. And I think I will.
My fingers fly across the keyboard, and my wine flies from the bottle just as rapidly. In the same sentence I rip his food and praise his body, his delicious, delicious body. I’m not going to actually publish it on the blog. I’m way too sober to do that.
Do I like his ass the best? No, his abs.
Lee has a six pack, which should be on display instead of his tacky, dated decor.
Sipping my wine, I ponder the blog post. It’s harsh and objectifying, and I only wrote it because I’m hurt without any justification for being hurt. I’ve never told Lee how I feel. I never will. But I could write it down ...
I open a new document on the blog and start a second draft. In this one, I write about how I truly feel about Lee:
* * *
For a man so talented and brilliant, he wastes his gifts on giggling girls that rotate in and out of his life like a chicken on a rotisserie. What I envy so much about Lee is the way he lives his life daringly. He steps boldly into the kitchen and chops his own way, sautés his own way, broils and bastes and boils his own way. Yes, he has his own way to boil. No, I’m not drunk.
But recently, Lee’s cooking has grown safe. His dishes lack the uniqueness they once had. Before, I knew just by the taste of the food I was in Lee’s restaurant. Now, I only know because of the line of models filing in and out of the kitchen. Do these girls give him the excitement he desires? Maybe they live daringly, too.
I know I certainly don’t. I want to, but I know I never will. And I know that’s why Lee will never really see me.
* * *
I think I’m out of wine. I do believe it’s time to get some more. I just need to find the discard button on this darn screen. Ugh, it’s moving back and forth, making me dizzy.
Oh, found it.
Done.
Chapter 3
Lee
* * *
My hands are shaking, my heart is racing, and I wouldn't be surprised if smoke unfurls from my flared nostrils like a charging bull.
This morning, I'm out for an ass to skewer.
Despite my anger, I manage a courteous wave for Jenna's doorman, whom I've known for years. He's not the one I'm mad at. As I wait for the elevator, I drum my fingers furiously against my leg. Why is it taking so long? It's never taken so long. Is the damn thing broken?
I'm just about to head to the stairs and sprint up seventy-three flights when the door jerks open with a ding. A woman gets on along with me. I mash the Floor 73 button at least thirty times, despite knowing full well it won't make the elevator go up any faster. The woman gives me a look from the corner of her eye, but my glare stops her from saying anything. It makes me feel better though, so I smash the button a few more times, while I watch the light flash from floor to floor.
Every time we stop, I exhale obnoxiously. The woman glares, I shrug, and the elevator doors close again. Finally, dear Lord, I'm on Jenna’s floor.
Right, left, left, right. I immediately pound on door 7345.
“Jenna! Jenna Harrison, open this door right now!”
Her elderly neighbor pops her curler-filled head out her own door at the thunderous noise.
“Morning, Mrs. Poole.”
“Morning, Lee. Is everything all right?”
“Unfortunately I’ve suffered a grave injustice.”
She nods her head and smiles. “Well isn't that nice,” she mumbles as she disappears. “Isn't that nice.”
“Jenna!” I hammer my fist against the door again. “Jenna! Jenna … Oh, you look terrible.”
She’s in the doorway, holding the door open. She squints and winces from the hallway's dim light. Her hair, which is always in a tidy bun with hardly even a flyaway, hangs in limp tangles around her shoulders. She has makeup smears across her face: lipstick, mascara, you name it.
“Like really, really terrible, Jenna.”
She blinks her bleary eyes and groans. “What do you want, Lee?”
She wears a hastily tied robe. The front of it falls open just enough so that I can see her bra. Who knew Jenna had a rack? She's always covering up under those stuffy black or grey suits. But unleashed like this, I can see her curves. Her yummy curves I wouldn't mind tracing with my tongue all night …
Focus, Lee, focus. I shake my head to clear those fantasies.
“Jenna, I require your professional services.”
“I'm not a stripper.”
“Not that.”
“I'm not a hooker, either.”
“Funny. I need you to sue someone for me.”
She rubs her mascara even further across her cheek. Don’t look down, Lee. Don’t look down.
“I guess come on in,” she finally sighs.
I’m slightly disappointed to see her close the flap of her robe as she holds open the door for me. But, it also removes temptation. Anyway, that’s not what I’m here for.
“What time is it?” she grumbles as she plops down on her couch and throws her arm over her face.
“I don't know. Read this.”
I try to push my phone toward her, but she twists her face around and grumbles again.
“No.”
“Jenna, this is important.”
I tickle her sides, and she hits me with a pillow before curling up in a fetal position on the couch. Frustrated, I growl and weave my hand under her to show her the phone. The glare intrudes her dark cocoon, and she kicks out at me. Wow, she's strong.
I need a new tactic. I head to her kitchen and brew up a quick cup of coffee in a mug. I walk back to the couch and hold it right above the arm where she's buried her head. The steam wafts towards her.
“Ah,” I narrate in my best British nature channel voice, “the hibernating Jenna smells the odor of the coffee and emerges from her nest. Nothing draws a Jenna out better than a cup of coffee. Oh, look there at her nose sniffing. Yes, she's opening her eyes. What a rare sight we're seeing.”
“Just give it to me. Now.”
I pat her on the head, and she swats out at me with those Jenna claws. She wraps her fingers around the mug and leans back with a sigh as she sips. Yeah, with that – with her – I’ve lost all my rage. My breathing is normal and my cheeks are cool. I'm just standing here watching her drink coffee and totally content doing it.
“If it
's a dick pick, Lee, you need to show that to a doctor.”
I laugh. “What?”
“I thought you wanted me to see something?”
“Right, right.”
I pull the page up on my phone and hand it over. She squints at the screen and looks up at me.
“You wanted me to see your Tinder account?”
“My Tinder? What, no. That's not what I wanted to – Here, let me see.”
She pulls back the phone with a maniacal laugh and starts to look through my profile.
“Let's make some edits, shall we? Six-five?”
She runs her suspicious eyes from my feet to my head. I sigh. I guess we're playing this game.
“Five-nine, I'd say.”
“Jenna.”
“Let's see,” she says aloud as she starts to type. “My passion is serving up hot food and even hotter sex. How's that?”
I lunge for my phone, but she's faster.
“I'm into girls with especially hairy mustaches and one of those bumps on her neck and scratchy hands.”
“You described a man!”
She smiles. “Oh, did I?”
Before she can make further edits, my phone beeps.
“Bryce is at the airport about to get on a plane, but he wants to know if you saw the blog,” she says, frowning in confusion. “What blog? What is he talking about?”
When I stick out my hand, she hands over the phone. I click on what I thought I clicked on in the first place: the blog. The one that lampooned my restaurant and, more specifically, lampooned me. The writer was brutal. Those words speared me right through the gut and left me to bleed out. It was harsh, damning, and personal.
Very personal.
“Here.” I pass the phone back to Jenna. “This is what I came to show you.”
What makes me even angrier is that some of the criticism was valid. I have been distracted with the lifestyle of a critically acclaimed chef. I have spent less and less time in the actual kitchen. And the time I do spend in the kitchen is usually with a model and, um, zucchini. But that doesn’t mean my food is subpar. I will say though, that the explicit descriptions of my body are one-hundred percent accurate. When I demand the retraction, all of that can stay.
“This is what I need you for, Jenna.”
She sets the phone down on the table in front of her. “Do you, um, know who wrote it?”
“That's the thing. I don’t. It's an anonymous blog. We need to trace this monster and I want you to sue them. Sue them for all they're worth.”
She stares at the phone with a dead expression. I'm slightly worried something is wrong, because I expected her to laugh at the blog. Maybe memorize it, print it out as a memento, or even tattoo part of it on her body. Maybe on her lower back right above her curvy, delicious–
No, Lee. Focus.
“How do we hunt them down?” I ask her. “I mean, I've seen Law and Order and CSI:Miami so I have some ideas.”
Jenna shakes her head.
“I know, I know,” I say. “They're just shows, but we can trace the internet footprint or whatever it is. Right?”
She holds up a finger.
“What?”
She turns pale and says, “I'm going to be sick.”
“I know. It makes me sick, too.”
But then she covers her mouth and runs out of the living room and into her bedroom. She tries to close the door, but in her haste, it remains open.
“Um, Jenna?”
When I hear no response, I follow after her. There’s an empty wine bottle on her bed and noises coming from the bathroom. Even an idiot like myself can put that math together. I wince in sympathy when I hear her retch, followed by a miserable moan.
Hangovers suck. I should have realized what state she was in when she looked so disheveled. That also must be why she didn't find the blog hilarious. Another nasty noise slips from the direction of the bathroom.
Well, there's only one thing to do in cases like this.
I backtrack through Jenna's room, step around the mess in the living room, and quietly close the front door behind me.
Chapter 4
Jenna
* * *
I'm honestly not sure if I'm throwing up because of my massive hangover or my massive embarrassment.
I lay my head against the cold tile in my bathroom and groan. Snippets of last night flash behind my closed eyelids. Each one is worse than the last. I stuck my tongue down William’s throat just to make Lee, the guy with a supermodel on his arm, jealous. Someone at Harvard made a serious mistake handing over that diploma. It’s just a matter of time before I'll be disbarred.
I gag and hug the toilet bowl. The one moment I can't seem to pull from the grey and hazy memories is pushing the “Publish” button on my blog. Maybe when I passed out, my forehead hit the “Enter” key. Or, I spilled wine and it fried the keyboard. A glitch sent it out into the unsuspecting world.
One thing I know for sure is: I did not publish that blog post on purpose. My stomach churns at the thought. Words scroll across my mind and I can't stop them.
If only Lee's prime rib was as juicy as his ass.
I think I'm going to be sick again.
If we can't taste Lee's signature 'It' dish of the week, at least we can all be comforted that he is tasting his 'It' girl of the week.
Why? Why, oh, why, why?
I don't know the last time Lee actually picked up a knife in his kitchen. Unless we're using the word knife as code for penis. If so, that was probably just hours ago.
I pull myself up using the vanity counter and stand on wobbly legs in front of the mirror. Mascara smudges across my face and lipstick smears over my lips, making me look like a celebrity mug shot before rehab.
All I had to do was not press “Publish”. Why didn't I just look at porn or do some online shopping? Even stalking Lee online would have been less devastating.
And Bryce knows. My brother, Lee’s best friend—the only person in the world who knows I’m the anonymous blogger behind that blog—now knows how I feel about Lee.
What if Bryce tells him I’m the blogger?
But no, he might have asked Lee if he’d seen the blog, but Bryce would never betray me by saying anything to Lee without checking with me first. Without giving me the chance to tell Lee myself.
Oh God, I have to tell Lee.
With a groan, I turn on the faucet. I rinse out my mouth before brushing my teeth. No matter how hard I scrub, I can't get the shame off. Washing my face doesn't help, either. I pull my hair into a tight bun and press down the flyaways, so I at least feel slightly more in control. But, I'm not.
The blog post is out there, and there's no way I can undo that. Everyone will read it. Everyone will pass it on. I wouldn't be surprised if it's trending. I bet Lee is freak —
Lee.
At that moment, I totally get why cartoon eyes pop out of their sockets when someone is surprised, because I swear I just saw mine do that in the mirror. Lee. Oh, shit. Lee is out there, in my apartment.
Panicked, I take a few deep breaths to steady my racing heart and wrap my robe more closely across my chest. I tip-toe to the bathroom door and press my ear against it. I don't hear any plates smashing or chairs being overturned. I crack the door open and wince as it creaks. Closing one eye, I squint into my bedroom.
There are the wine bottles as evidence of my crime. And a stain of red wine on the carpet I didn't notice earlier. Girl, we've been over this before: when you're wasted and drinking in bed, always grab a white. Never red. I shake my head. Clearly, I didn’t learn.
There’s no sign of Lee standing there glaring with arms crossed and toe tapping, so I slip out of the bathroom. He must not know what I did … I’ll make damn sure he never knows. But first, I have to know if he knows.
I poke my head into the living room and expect to see him sitting there on the couch or standing by the window. But no one is there.
“Lee?”
I wander the apartment long a
fter I’ve realized he’s not here, searching places I know he isn't. I didn't need to check the laundry room three times. Lee's allergic to washing machines. I sink down onto the couch and accept the truth.
He knows – and he left.
A terrible thought hits me, and I prepare to run right back to the bathroom. Lee knowing that I wrote a damning and personal review of his restaurant is bad. This new thought is a thousand times worse. My palms grow clammy, and my face feels really hot all of a sudden.
Forget Bryce telling him anything. What if Lee already knows the pathetic, miserable crush I have on him?
It's obvious based on my post. That's the only reason to mention someone's ass seventeen times in six-hundred words. He'll know I've wanted to be with him ever since we were kids and he convinced me to skip school with him to go drink by the lake. It's the one and only time I've ever missed class in my entire life. And it was only because of him.
He'll know I've always loved his mischievous dimples and that glint of danger in his eyes. He'll know I adore the way he flies through life with such passion - and how all I want is to fly with him.
He'll laugh. He'll laugh at the idea that I love him. Me, the girl who considers mascara and blush a full face of makeup. Me, the girl who thinks a grey suit is risky and heels over two inches are fancy. Me, the girl who stays in Friday night, because I tell myself I have work.
Oh, how he'll laugh.
I throw a pillow over my face and am deciding which Adele song I'll cry to for the rest of my life, when I hear the door open. I fling off the pillow and instinctively throw the closest law book I can at the intruder … It's Lee.
“That's quite an arm, Jenna.” He studies the dent where the book slammed into the wall. “Manning could use a few pointers from you.”
