by CJ Martín
The gesture feels oddly symbolic of my relationship with Jesse. We came close but not quite close enough. We could not be salvaged, the whole thing scrapped in one swift move. I squeeze my eyes shut to stop the slow flow of tears.
Autumn squeezes my shoulder. “Change is good.” Her smile is warm as she says it. “Let’s get you to the sink. It’s gonna be great.”
I manage a smile but say nothing because I really don’t think anything will ever be great again.
The following week I receive an email notifying me of a meeting that is scheduled that afternoon with Mr. Lewg and Lauren. Oh, shit, I think. I knew it was too good to be true. Maybe he had to fill out some paperwork with the HR department before he could actually fire me—employee discrimination and all that jazz.
After lunch, I trudge down the long hallway to Conference Room C. Lauren and Mr. Lewg are already seated along one side of the table and my eyes dart to the clock to double check that I’m not late. Twelve forty-eight. I breathe a sigh of relief; the email definitely said one o’clock.
Mr. Lewg stands as I enter. Lauren doesn’t move at first, but pushes herself out of her chair a moment too late, and it’s awkward. Mr. Lewg extends his hand. “Ms. Jones, good to see you again.”
“Nice to see you.” I grasp his hand lightly and then turn to Lauren and nod my greeting. “Lauren.”
Mr. Lewg cuts right to the chase. “I asked Lauren to arrange this meeting because,” I hold my breath awaiting the blow, “I think your talents are being underused.”
The breath whooshes out of me. “What?”
He raises his eyebrows quizzically, but Lauren narrows her eyes on me.
“Yes,” he continues. “According to your file, you have a Bachelor of Arts degree from Lennox, right? Concentration in Interior Design?”
Dumbfounded, I ask, “You read my file?”
He pauses, closes the folder and sets it on the table. “Don’t seem so surprised, Ms. Jones. I read all my employees’ files.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean,” I say, flustered. “I just thought—”
“Mr. Lewg has reviewed the sample portfolio you submitted when you applied,” Lauren interjects, voice clipped. What? When? “He feels like you’d be a good fit for the Parker Condominium Project.”
“Holy shit,” I gasp.
“Riley, your language,” Lauren scolds. “Honestly.”
“Sorry.” I place both hands on the table to stop them from shaking. Is this really happening? The Parker Condominium Project is huge. Every stager and realtor at the firm has been vying for a chance to present their ideas to Lauren, and ultimately Mr. Lewg, but only a select few were chosen. “I’m sorry,” I repeat. “I don’t know what to say.”
“The pitch meeting is scheduled for this Friday. I know it’s not a lot of time…” He places one hand on top of the file folder in front of him. “…but I’m sure you’ll be able to come up with something.”
“Yes,” I say, at the same time as I nod my head. “Yes, I can definitely come up with something.”
When I’ve made no attempt to move, Lauren nods her head in dismissal. “That’s all, Ms. Jones.”
“Right.” I push myself to stand and gather my pen and pad. Lauren’s head is bent over her notebook, but as Mr. Lewg stands, I catch his eye and say, “Thank you.”
He winks. “No problem. I’m looking forward to seeing your designs, Ms. Jones.”
Yeah. Me, too.
52
Riley
Seven o’clock Thursday night and I’ve still got nothing for tomorrow’s presentation. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Seriously, I may as well throw in the towel because all of my knowledge, all of my creative ideas, everything is gone. Poof! Up in a cloud of smoke.
“Arghhh.” I scream into the silence of my apartment. “This is useless.” I crumple another sketch and toss it onto the floor. The design elements are there—stainless steel, minimalist layout, cool paint tones—but they’re disjointed, incohesive, as though a toddler arranged them together rather than a college graduate with a fine arts degree.
My fist pounds the throw pillow on my sofa—the tiger print pillow that Jesse gave to me five days before he walked out of my life forever. I know. I should toss it. It completely clashes with my décor, but I can’t part with it.
My fingers trace the velour fabric, and despite myself, I smile as the memory washes over me.
We were lying in bed, naked, tangled up in each other after a long and satisfying sex session. I was blissed out, half asleep, but Jesse was wide awake. His fingers danced over my skin. He was always like that; always had to be touching me in some way.
I giggled as he skimmed my lower back. Then his fingers began to move with more distinction as he traced patterns—letters—on my skin.
“R,” I said, after he stilled his fingers.
“Good girl.” He kissed my shoulder. “This one?”
I scrunched my nose in concentration as he traced the next letter. “A.”
Another kiss. “And this one?”
But I barely had to focus because I knew what he was doing: spelling out my initials. “J.” I sighed as his lips traced a path between my shoulder blades.
“You’re very good at this, Riley Ann,” he said, his hot breath warming my skin.
“Mmmhmm,” I murmured as his hand kneaded my flesh.
“Remember when you wanted me to call you Raja?” He chuckled. “You were obsessed with Aladdin and that stupid tiger.”
My eyes popped open. “I was six!”
I groaned as his fingers worked a knot in my upper back. “I’m gonna start calling you Raja. You could be my own little tiger.”
“Don’t you dare!”
“Why not? You’re like a tiger in bed.”
I flipped onto my back so that I could face him. It was true; I was a different person—sexually—when I was with him. He awakened a desire in me, a confidence, a need that I never knew existed. But I wanted him to know that it was only with him No other man made me feel half as loved, half as desired, half as free. “Only for you.”
“Damn right, only for me.” He growled, resting his head against the soft pillow of my breasts. His fingers began tracing letters again, this time on my belly.
“R,” I said, as my fingers played with his hair, and he nodded. “A,” I responded, losing myself in his touch. “C.” I spoke the letter as my brain registered its shape, but my fingers paused on his scalp. I tugged the short strands. “Hey, that’s not my initial.”
“It will be.” His fingers continued to float across my belly. “One day. When you marry me.”
Holy shit. Did he just ask…? “Jesse.” I breathed, equal parts nerves and excitement, the thought slamming into me all at once: I want to marry him. I want to spend the rest of my life loving him, creating memories together, and sharing the good times and the bad.
“Then, I can call you RAC.” He chuckled, then added, “Because you have a nice rack.”
“Idiot.” I pulled his hair, and he stopped laughing.
When he spoke again, his voice was serious and calm. “One day soon, Riley. The whole world will know that you’re mine.” His lips whispered against my skin. “That you’ve always been mine.”
“Argh.” I growl, scowling at the stupid tiger pillow and the stupid memory that goes along with it. This is so not helping right now.
Wanting to get some fresh air and to clear my thoughts, I grab my jacket off the peg and head outside for a stroll around the block, hoping a change of scenery will spark my creativity. A half hour later, when I’m seated at my dining room table, still staring at my sketch pad and I’ve still got nothing, I know the walk hasn’t helped. It’s going to be a long night.
I’m not one of those people who can pull an all-nighter. In fact, I’m not entirely sure it’s possible. At least for me. A little after midnight, I crashed face down on my bed with a half dozen sketches and a loose color scheme in order. It wasn’t my best work, but it wasn’t my worst, either. Plu
s, I reasoned, I had significantly less time to prepare for my pitch than the other three designers on staff.
I set my alarm for an extra hour early to prep my notes and review my (measly) seven slides. Coffee was the only thing propelling me forward. That and a long, hot bath that I promised myself as an indulgence when the meeting was said and done.
“Good morning,” Lauren’s cool voice greets me as I take my place at the table. “Mr. Lewg had a last minute appointment, so I will be overseeing the design pitches.” Kiss this chance goodbye, Jones.
There’s an awkward pause as Lauren takes her place at the head of the table and asks who would like to present first. Everyone, including me, averts their gaze and does his or her best to look extremely busy. Finally Lauren looks directly at me and speaks. “Ms. Jones. Thank you so much for volunteering.”
The bratty five-year old who is alive and well inside me threatens to scream, “This isn’t fair. I didn’t volunteer.” But the sane side, the grown-up side, wins, and I take my place at the podium near the projector screen.
“Good morning.” I start with a bright smile. “Thank you all for coming…”
53
Riley
Liza comes over the following night to piece together my wounded ego. The meeting went worse than I could have imagined. The presentation from Shannah, the newest realtor, was comprised of more than twenty slides and included a video that she created herself. Show off. Jeremy, LAMP’s top stager, and his color scheme were incredible, and throughout his entire pitch, I cursed myself for not having the same intuition to combine opposite color groups the way he had done.
“It was awful.” I sink back into the couch cushions and draw a palm across my face. “So freaking awful.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.” Liza tries to bolster my spirits.
“Yeah, you’re right.” She nods her head in encouragement, but then I add, “It was so much worse.”
“Stop.” She swats my arm.
“I’m never going to design.” I whine. “Four years of college and I’m nothing more than a glorified secretary.”
She tries again, voice laced with even more enthusiasm. “Everyone starts somewhere.”
Liza is nothing if not optimistic—at least, where other people are concerned. Her own life is a different story. Recently, she’s been down because she and Scott are in a rough patch. He accepted a job in Phoenix and she has one here in Cardinal’s Cay. The long distance is taking a toll on both of them, despite their numerous attempts at trying to make it work.
“How are things?” I ask, just to change the subject, because once I get my self–pity party started, it’ll go all night.
“The same.”
“You still planning on flying out to see him next month?”
“Supposedly.”
“You two are perfect together. You’ll work it out,” I say, but only because it’s the right thing. My voice lacks conviction. The truth is, I’m the worst possible person to be doling out relationship advice.
She nods her head and we’re both silent for a minute. “Still nothing from Jesse?”
“Nope.” I shake my head. It’s been three months and twenty-nine days. Not that I’m counting or anything. “And the fucked-up thing? He sent Mikayla a birthday card.”
When I was home last week for my sister’s eleventh birthday party and saw the card hanging on the fridge, I nearly lost my damn mind. I did my best to downplay my reaction in front of my family—especially my dad, because he’s downright giddy that Jesse moved away.
It took me over twenty minutes to powder the red splotches on my face from crying and took every ounce of willpower not to rip the card down. I was torn equally between wanting to tear it to shreds and to treasure it because Jesse had sent it.
“What?” Liza’s voice interrupts my thoughts. She leans forward in her chair. “He hasn’t returned one of your calls or texts or emails, but he sends your little sister a birthday card?”
I shrug. “They were close.” We used to be close, too.
“That’s gotta be…”
I nod before she finishes her thought. I could fill in the blank with any number of adjectives: humiliating, soul-crushing, devastating… Shall I go on?
“I don’t know, Ry. Maybe it’s time to move on.”
“I know.” And this time when I agree with her, I actually mean it.
54
Riley
I got the Parker Condominium gig. Don’t ask me how or why—all three of the other presentations were far superior to mine—but I landed it, nonetheless. Mr. Lewg emailed personally to say that he was pleased with what I put together—um, did he have eyes?—and couldn’t wait to see the project come to fruition.
Rumors were flying around the office that he—Mr. Lewg—had recently broken up with his longtime girlfriend, Kelly something or other, and that we would be seeing him much more frequently in the office. According to the gossip mill, he wanted to become more involved in the structure and design of the firm’s newest acquisitions.
I wasn’t sure if the break-up rumors were true, but Mr. Lewg, or Bill, as he kept insisting I call him, was at the office way more often. He went so far as to treat the staff to a catered lunch on Friday which, if I’m being honest, was extremely thoughtful, not to mention delicious. Overall, the changes at LAMP were positive and rather enjoyable.
But tonight—the night of the Parker Condominium launch—I’m anything but carefree as my eyes squint at the clock on the far end of the wall: 6:57. Butterflies take flight in my stomach, and the nervousness that I’ve been battling all afternoon rears its ugly head. Again. This project isn’t big by company standards, not by a long shot, but the fact that I was given the lead is a huge deal, despite my less-than-stellar pitch. And I don’t want to disappoint my bosses. This may be my only chance to shine, and I want to damn well sparkle.
I spent the past four and a half weeks planning every single detail—from the color of the accent pillows (light turquoise) to the shape and scent of each candle (oval and sandalwood) displayed in each bathroom, to the exact metal finish of the curtain tiebacks (brushed nickel).
Lauren, or Cruella de Vil, as I had taken to calling her because I’d seen her wear a real—I know—mink coat to a company event last month, had been explicitly clear that I was to “stick to the plan” that we (read: she) crafted. Ever since I landed this project, Lauren has been extra frosty to me, probably, I suspect, because Mr. Lewg actually seems to like my work, and it’s something that she can’t quite see value in.
Knuckles rap on the open door, and I jerk forward. “Knock, knock,” calls a female voice. “Am I the first one here?” A short, middle-aged woman approaches. She wears a jet-black pantsuit with sharp black heels. Her lavender blouse softens the formal look, but just a tad. I would describe her look as severe, and even though her voice seems friendly enough, she makes my anxiety triple.
I plaster a fake smile on my face to conceal my nerves. “Yes.” I extend my hand. “I’m Riley Jones. I’m with Lewg and Morgan Properties. Thank you for coming this evening.”
“Yes.” She pumps my hand once, a firm shake that I’m not quite expecting, as she cranes her head to see around where I stand. “Well, I had to see such a ‘hot property’ in an ‘upcoming neighborhood’. You’re the realtor?”
I shake my head, dismissing her question. “No, I’m the just stager.”
At that moment Lauren appears at my side and rests her hand on my elbow as she says, “Now, don’t be modest. Riley is the absolute best stager in the tristate area. We are so fortunate to have her with us at LAMP.”
At her warm words of praise, my eyes nearly pop out of my head, but she simply smiles and narrows her eyes in a way that says, “Just go with it.”
I nod and smile, and am about to respond when another prospective client walks in.
“Jackson Densee.” He shakes my hand, and I repeat the same introduction over again.
I lose track of names and faces
. Everything and everyone seems to blur together, and I’ve never been so grateful to have Lauren around. She’s a pro, using everyone’s first and last names, slipping specific details about each unit into the conversation. If I’ve ever had any doubt, I now know why she’s not only the office manager, but the bestselling agent at our firm. I can see why she makes the big bucks.
During the last hour of the open house, Bill arrives and splits his time “showboating” some of the higher-end clients and mingling with the remaining guests. By the night’s end, there are at least two firms that are seriously interested in investing in the existing building and its future sister property planned to break ground next September.
Bill finds me outside on the patio deck, taking a few moments to catch my breath. “Great job in there.”
I smile. “Thanks. Lauren was the one who did most of the work.” Almost as though she heard her name, Lauren’s eyes find us outside and narrow in a scowl. I ignore her glare and say, “I’m just the stager.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. Half the battle in this business is making investors think you have something they don’t, making them believe you have exactly what they need. Besides, I doubt anyone could do half as good a job as you did.” I shrug, but he continues. “Although, I must admit, it looks nothing like the original pitch.”
“Thank God.” The words push past my lips before I’ve had a chance to stop them. Bill’s eyes widen in surprise, but I continue, deciding to hold nothing back. “You know the original sketches were shit.” I raise my eyebrows in challenge, but he dips his head in agreement. I knew it. “Why then give me this project?” My hands splay wide. “Why take a chance on me? I mean, it turned out great, but I could have really…” I stop myself before I say fucked up.
“Fucked up?” Bill reads my mind and I gasp.
“Mr. Lewg.” I joke. “Language.”
