by Lila Monroe
You know what? That’s the problem. Men are so used to getting laid at the drop of a fucking hat, they don’t even have to pretend to care, let alone actually do it! This entire city is a damn buffet table full of naked women, and if I don’t spread my legs by the third freaking date, then they just move right along to the next chick, no problem. I like sex! I fucking love fucking! But it’s like the minute a dude comes, the part of his brain that pays me actual attention switches off. Boom! I should just stop having sex, full stop, and see how they like it then.
You know . . . maybe that’s not such a bad idea. Like, a strike. Downing tools until management meets our demands! Hell, every woman should take a time out and close for business until men start showing us some damn romance and consideration. Ha! I bet they’d find a way to pay attention then. Fuck, even Colin would upgrade from his two-for-one wing deal at Sal’s Brewhouse if he couldn’t get laid. Yeah, that’d teach them. No sex until we get a little romance in our lives. Some courtship. You know, in the seventeenth century, Welsh men would spend months carving intricate wooden spoons as a symbol of affection for the girl they were courting. I’m not even asking for some damn whittling, so would a nice candlelit dinner for two be asking too much? I want to be wooed, dammit. Show me the woo!
That’s it. It’s decided. All of this is off the market until the men of New York get their woo into action. Let’s see if they can think with their hearts instead of their dicks, for once in the history of the known universe.
OK, I better go. Love you babes! Mwah!
8
Lizzie
The next morning, I feel like a woman reborn. There’s nothing like an epic rant to your sister to help get everything off your chest. All the frustration I’ve been bottling up is finally out of my system, and I feel a million times lighter. Plus, it’s a gorgeous spring day in New York: the cherry blossom is on the trees, my subway train arrives on time, and there’s zero line at the Starbucks on the corner, so I actually bounce into work on time (gasp) and fully caffeinated (double gasp). Today is going to be a good day.
I stride through the lobby and head downstairs. “Hey Shauna!” I call to a co-worker, but she’s whispering furiously with a group from the Decorative Arts department and only looks up long enough to giggle and smirk as I pass.
Weird.
I keep walking, making a detour for the break room. OK, so I’ve had my first coffee fix, but it’s Friday, and that means doughnut day. And I deserve some rainbow sprinkles in my life right now.
When I walk in the room, the first thing I see is crowd of people talking noisily, gathered around a table, all of them hunched over someone’s phone. Thank heavens for YouTube videos of a cat playing a piano, because for once, the doughnut box is undefended.
“Come to me, Boston cream!” I coo happily, making a beeline for the best of the bunch. But as soon they notice me, the conversation stops. I can feel everyone’s eyes on me, and then the whispering starts again.
I open my mouth to ask what’s going on, but suddenly they all grab their stuff, talking loudly about work. A guy from the Egyptian collection shoves his phone back into his pocket, an embarrassed grin on his face, and everyone bustles out of the room without making eye contact with me at all.
Umm, what?
Am I wearing my shirt inside out, or do I have my skirt tucked in my underwear? I quickly check my reflection in the glass, but there’s no camel-toe to be seen. I feel a shiver of unease. Maybe Morgan’s on the warpath, and decided to cut jobs from our department. But no, that wouldn’t explain the weird smirks. And the phone.
Huh. I grab a couple of doughnuts and head down to my office, but I’m on edge now. I’ve just thrown my coat over the back of my chair and settled down to work when Skye walks in, without knocking, of course. Her normally silk-smooth hair looks like she’s gotten caught in a wind tunnel, and she’s out of breath.
“Busy morning?” I ask. “Don’t tell me you’re trying that spinning class again? I thought you quit after you fucked the instructor while riding the stationary bike—which,” I add, “I still think defies the laws of physics. Or decency. One or the other.”
Skye looks at me, and her mouth drops open.
“Oh . . . my . . . god,” she says slowly. “You don’t know?”
“Know what?”
She hurries over and starts messing with her phone before placing it on my desk, and all I can see is some video loading.
Perfect. The cat video has gone viral.
“Look, I love whiskers just as much as the next girl, but I have a lot to do this morning so I would appreciate it if you’d just—”
“Just watch!” Skye insists.
The video starts. It’s someone's living room: posters on the wall, and a cream-colored couch. “I have that throw!” I note. “It’s super-warm, and—”
“Is this thing working?” A familiar voice comes, and my blood turns to ice, because I know that voice. I know that living room.
“No. No, no, no, no . . .” I gape at the screen, just as someone sits in front of the camera.
And by someone, I mean me.
“OK.” I see myself on screen, still dressed up in that red dress from my aborted date with Colin, my mascara flaking and my hair pushed back. “Hey, it’s me.” I give a wave at the camera. To Jess! This was a video for Jess! What the fuck? “I know you’re probably off snuggling with your dear husband,” I continue, totally oblivious that this video is somehow now PLAYING ON MOTHER-FREAKING YOUTUBE. “But some of us are still in the trenches trying not to drink ourselves into oblivion just to make it through the night.”
“Turn it off!” I cry, lunging for her phone. “Turn it off now!”
Skye hits pause. “Sorry.” She makes a face. “I, umm, thought maybe you knew? And it was like a weird performance art thing? My friend Kayla is in this improv troupe, and they do shit like this all the time, but then you’ve never been someone who likes the camera, so I didn’t know if I should call you right away. And it’s getting all those hits, and your views are through the roof, and . . .”
I close my eyes, willing her to just disappear—and the video right along with it. But Skye keeps chattering, and that image of me frozen on the screen doesn’t melt into oblivion.
What the fuck have I done?
The video is out there. In the ether, or the cloud, or wherever it is that abject humiliation and cat videos are stored. Instead of sending the video to Jess the way I’d meant to, I must’ve hit the wrong thing and uploaded it instead.
I put my pounding head in my hands, willing a hole to open up directly under my desk so I can crawl in and hibernate until this all blows over.
Whenever that is.
“Where did you see this?” I ask weakly, hoping that there’s some way to do damage control. Maybe it hasn’t spread that far yet. But if it hasn’t then how does everyone at work know? I think dejectedly, my stomach dropping all the way to my pointy-toed black pumps.
“Well, I saw it on Jezebel,” she says, looking away. “But I heard a bunch of people in the break room say it’s trending on Facebook, too.”
“Oh my god,” I moan, dropping my head into my hands again. “This is a nightmare.”
Suddenly, there’s a voice from the doorway. “Well, well. If it isn’t our resident YouTube star. Last night’s date went well, I take it?”
Jake.
As if this couldn’t get any worse.
“Go away!” I call, muffled through my arms. I hear him chuckle.
“I take it this wasn’t your planned global debut.”
I lift my head to glare at him, wishing for a swirling space vortex to come suck one of us out of this universe, preferably me. Damn, he looks smug, dressed up to the nines again in his perfectly-fitted suit, with a perfectly-fitted pair of pants over his perfectly-fitted ass—
Focus.
“Yes, OK, I uploaded it by mistake,” I sigh. “Thanks for the support. Are you here just to gloat or can we actually get to work
?”
“I can multitask.” Jake strolls over and snaffles one of the doughnuts from my desk. He bites into the sugary goodness and licks frosting off his face. “Mmmm, tasty.”
“Umm, I guess I better be going,” Skye says as she edges towards the door. “Good morning, Mr. Weston,” she purrs on her way out. Great.
“You can call me Jake.”
“OK, Jake.” Skye gives this little giggle, and practically winks as she flounces away.
“Hands off my assistant,” I warn him. He holds them up in surrender.
“Hey now, I didn’t do anything.”
“Nope, but I can see you want to. She’s too nice for the likes of you.”
“Gee, thanks.” Jake takes a seat. “Rough night?”
“Sounds like you’ve already heard all about it,” I snap, stuffing consolation doughnut into my mouth.
“Who hasn’t?” he says with a smirk. “You’re trending all over. There’s even a hashtag on Twitter. Good job, I guess.”
Wait, he thinks I wanted this humiliation?
“Look,” I start, staring at him over the top of my glasses, “I don’t know what happened. I was trying to send a video rant to my sister, and somehow I guess I pressed the wrong button . . .”
His mouth twitches like he’s trying to hold back a smile.
“I was just messing around!” I yell. “You can’t possibly think that I uploaded it on purpose? Maybe you’re not paying enough attention, but this is just a tad embarrassing, you know?” I sputter, sure my face is bright red now.
God, I hate having pale skin that betrays my every emotion.
“So you’re really going on strike?” he asks. “Seems a little extreme. I mean, it was just a bad date, right?”
The strike? Now I remember that part.
I groan. “Yes. No. I don’t know. What else am I supposed to do? Guys these days wouldn’t know romance if they passed out face down in it.” I can’t resist the dig, and by Jake’s wince, it’s clear he’s finally remembered that little debacle too. “Maybe I should go on strike,” I sigh. “At least then a guy might be motivated to show a little imagination.”
“Withholding sex to get expensive gifts, got it.” Jake gives me a know-it-all look that makes my blood boil.
“That’s not what I said!” I protest. “This isn’t about money, it’s about romance.”
“Same difference.” He shrugs. “It’s all just window dressing in the end.”
“Says the guy in a thousand-dollar suit,” I shoot back. “Look,” I say, pushing my glasses up on my nose imperiously, or as imperiously as I can, considering that I almost died of embarrassment a few moments ago, “Just because your cold bitter heart is closed and you think women are only good for fucking doesn’t mean the rest of us aren’t looking for something real. And if I have to take these goods off the market to find a guy who actually has some substance, well maybe it’s worth the shot.”
“Good luck with that.” He smirks. “And for your information, you’ve got me all wrong. I respect women.”
“Oh yeah?” I answer sweetly. “So you’ve just been a regular serial monogamist since whatshername, Isabel? I bet you haven’t fucked the same woman more than twice since that New Year’s.”
He clenches his jaw in a way that makes me know I just hit the bullseye. “At least I’m not making false promises, or using sex as a weapon to manipulate people into doing what I want.”
“Sure, keep telling yourself that. But there’s something pretty sad about a man in his thirties who’s never had a real relationship.” I can’t resist a final dig. “Better keep trawling for those twenty-two-year-olds, because soon they’ll be the only ones who can’t see through this whole bitter, broken act.”
Jake’s eyes flash with something, and I realize I just stepped way over the line. Shit. Why do I do this? There’s just something about him that drives me crazy, in the “claw someone’s eyes out” way, not the “tear all my clothes off” sense of the word.
Although now that I think about it . . .
I force my imagination back under control and clear my throat. “So, we should probably get to work. On sourcing the exhibit. Since that’s our actual job.”
I open up my laptop and pull up my to-do list for today and hit print. It’s basically a list of all the pieces I’d love to have for the exhibition, and just looking at it gives me palpitations. I’ve already made a bunch of preliminary calls to narrow things down, but still, there’s a ton to do to bring this all together.
If we can stop talking about my sex life—or lack thereof—long enough to focus on actual work.
The paper comes sputtering out of the printer in the corner, and I get up and grab it.
“How do you want to work this?” Jake asks, his voice cool. “I work best alone.”
“Great, me too.” I rip the list right down the middle.
“Here,” I say, handing him half. “No cooperation—or conversation—required. In fact, we don’t need to talk at all.”
He looks down at the list, then back up at me. Is it my imagination or does he actually look a bit surprised?
“Fine,” he says evenly, “if that’s the way you want it. I’ll send you an email update when I’ve finished this.” He holds up the piece of paper, then heads for the door.
“Can’t wait!” I yell after him as it shuts.
The second he’s gone I rush back to my computer and pull up the Jezebel site, and without stopping to read the story itself, I follow the link to the YouTube page. My mouth opens in disbelief as I scroll down and start to read, and my throat tightens.
There are 450,000 views and 2,004 comments. Make that 2,005. This isn’t dying down—it’s just getting started. And it’s not some “little” story either—this is right up there with those viral cat videos, except it’s me, my face, my thoughts, my stupid ranting out there for everyone to see—and comment on. I scroll through the comments quickly, without stopping, and every time I think I’ve reached the bottom of the page, there are more. And more. And more.
Oh god. I shut the computer and swallow hard.
I’m going to need a bigger doughnut.
9
Lizzie
Friday can’t come fast enough. I just put my head down and power through the week, keeping my focus on work, and the endless mountain of stuff I have to get done before the exhibit opens. Even so, as hard as I try, the whole week feels like one of those dreams where I’m wandering around naked, and everyone’s pointing and staring, and it’s been weeks since I got waxed.
In other words, it’s been the WORST.
Which is why Saturday comes as a blessed relief. No morning commute with people pointing and laughing and snapping pics on their cellphone. No laughing it all off with my co-workers and acting like sure, haha, being the butt of the internet’s joke is just fine. And no avoiding Jake, because although I haven’t even seen him at the museum this week at all, I know he’s out there with his smug gorgeous face just waiting to judge me for actually wanting to find love.
Nope, today is all mine.
I sink back into the covers, trying to plan my day. I have plans with Della and the girls, but maybe I’ll sneak in a movie at one of the classic theaters later. I could use a healthy dose of Hepburn right about now. There’s a woman who didn’t take shit from anyone—and looked amazing in a pant-suit while doing so. Or maybe I should put in a few extra hours of work. I’ve been pulling late nights all week working the phones, but I’m still having trouble getting all the pieces I want for the exhibit. And yes, the world won’t stop rotating if I can’t secure the original shooting scripts for The Philadelphia Story but I’ll know I failed.
And Jake will too.
Jake . . .
His face pops into my brain, and damn, if it isn’t a handsome one. Is it a law of the universe that a guy’s hotness is usually in indirect proportion to how decent a person he is? Maybe it’s because they get to slide through life having everyone fall at their feet.
Or on their couch.
I blush, remembering New Year’s Eve in all its disappointing glory. As much as it’s been fun teasing Jake about his early nap time, I’m definitely compensating for my own embarrassment, too. I mean, if someone falls asleep at a, uh, crucial moment, it kind of implies you weren’t exciting enough to keep their attention, right?
Or maybe it was all about the whiskey, and nothing to do with me. Either way, I’m hoping the next few weeks won’t get awkward. We’ll have to work pretty closely to get this exhibit ready to open, and I don’t have time to deal with his cocky attitude.
And his smoldering blue eyes.
Down girl.
I push his face out of my mind. I’m on a strike, remember? No men of any kind until I find the one to sweep me off my feet. And Jake’s made it plenty clear what he thinks about romance. He wouldn’t know true love if he tripped and fell on her—dick first.
My cell phone rings, and I reach over to grab it with a yawn. The number lit up on the screen is unfamiliar, and I cringe. It’s probably about my student loans again. God knows when I’ll ever be able to make a payment on time.
“Is this Lizzie Ryan?” A female voice asks.
“Yeesssss,” I say tentatively, wondering how much I owe this time. Those late fees really add up.
“I’m a reporter from the New York Daily News, and I was hoping to get a quote from you for a story I’m writing.”
