by Lila Monroe
“Well, of course I mean marriage!” She throws her arms up in exasperation. “Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said?”
Okay . . . I see someone hasn’t taken her Prozac today. Or had her daily Starbucks. Best to tread lightly.
“Does he know you’re receptive to such an offer?” I ask in a neutral voice.
She lets out a long sigh, like a balloon deflating.
“I can’t imagine he doesn’t. We’ve been dating for two years now, and I’ve only hinted around about it a million times. I even sent him links of possible venues for 2018! You have to book these things way in advance, you know, if you want to have any hope of snagging somewhere decent,” she says emphatically, waiting for me to agree with her, as if we’re in exactly the same boat.
I nod. “Oh, of course. Definitely.”
“So here’s the thing. I’m thinking about using your little strike strategy,” she says firmly, placing both hands palms down on the desk, “to perhaps try and force the issue a bit? I mean, I’m thirty-eight now, you know. I’m not getting any younger. I need to lock this thing down now.”
“You mean, refuse to have sex until he proposes?” I gulp. “But the strike isn’t about manipulating anyone,” I say gingerly, aware that I’m on dangerous ground.
“Well, maybe that wasn’t its original purpose,” she says smoothly, “but it seems to me that it could prove to be extremely useful in my situation. Don’t you think?” She’s basically daring me to disagree, and as much as I love my job, the whole thing seems kind of icky to me.
“Well, maybe,” I start, “but—”
Just then there’s a quick rap on the door, and while normally I’d be pissed, this time I’m more than glad for the interruption. Without waiting for me to give the okay, the door opens and Jake walks in, list in hand.
“Hope I’m not interrupting anything important, ladies.”
“Not at all,” Jake,” Morgan says, beaming at him so hard that I’m sure her dermatologist will lecture her at some later date about the dangers of smiling too much. “I was just getting Lizzie’s input on a personal matter.”
She turns back to me, leaning across the desk. “So when should I start the strike? Tonight? Tomorrow morning? Should I send him an email explaining my decision or just let him figure it out for himself?”
“Not you, too,” Jake interrupts. “God, what have you spawned?” he says to me, looking amused.
“Frustrated much?” I ask sweetly. “What’s the matter, Jake? Dates not going well lately?”
“No complaints here.” He smirks, and Morgan gets up.
“I’ll leave you to it,” she says, smiling widely at me. “I think I’ll definitely take your advice, Lizzie,” she says.
“But . . . I didn’t . . . you shouldn’t—”
The door slams shut behind her.
Great.
“Trouble in paradise?” Jake asks. Of course, today’s suit is a lightweight navy fabric that not only brings out the blue in his eyes, but ripples off his taut physique like water.
Not that I’m noticing or anything.
“What do you need?” I ask. “Are you having problems with your list? I’m kind of busy with my own.”
“Then maybe I can help. I’m all done.” Jake lets his sheet flutter to the desk. I look down at the piece of paper and every task has been neatly crossed off in red ink.
“You cannot be serious,” I tell him in a state of sheer disbelief. “You’re finished already?”
“Like it was hard.”
“How?” I sputter. I purposefully gave him the hard stuff! “How is that even possible? There were no less than twenty-four items you needed to procure on here! How did you—”
“Why don’t you come to lunch with me?” he interrupts, like this suggestion to share a meal is totally normal, like we do this every goddamn day. “Maybe I’ll even tell you my secrets.”
I pause. So here’s the thing: on one hand, Jake drives me completely out of my mind, and I’m just as likely to enjoy my lunch with him as I am to stab him with a butter knife. On the other hand, I am hungry, and if there’s any chance he does have some secret to getting this stuff done so quickly, I could sure use it.
“Fine,” I say, picking up my bag and walking to the door. “But you’re buying.”
11
Lizzie
He takes me to Umberto’s, the schmancy Italian place around the corner that directly overlooks Central Park. “Morgan brings all the big-shot donors here,” I say, looking around. “I’ve heard the waiting list is a mile long and—ooh, bread!”
Jake smiles and gestures to the waiter to bring some over. It’s not until I have butter melting in my mouth that I sit back in the cozy booth and finally relax.
“When I get to heaven, it’s going to be a bakery,” I sigh with pleasure, tearing into another roll. “Nothing but butter croissants as far as the eye can see. Or a doughnut shop. Or a bakery-slash-doughnut shop.”
“You know, there’s a place in the West Village that makes cronuts,” Jake says.
“No!”
“Yes.” He grins, clearly amused by my eternal devotion to carbs.
“That’s what makes America great,” I declare. “We see a doughnut, and we think, how much better can this get?”
“How much more of a heart attack, you mean.”
“I like my moderation in moderation,” I quip, as the waiter returns to take our order. I pick the Bolognese and a glass of red wine and Jake gets some kind of complicated chicken dish with mushrooms, but who cares? We’ve already established I’m a carbs girl. It’s pasta all the way, baby. The waiter departs, and I take a sip of wine and brace myself.
“Go on,” I tell him, “we may as well get this part over with.”
“Which part?” Jake looks confused.
“The part where you gloat about getting your list finished, and make me beg so you feel superior before helping me out.”
He laughs. “You sure about skipping through that, because it sounds kind of fun to me.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. Tell me, O wise one, how did you do it?” I pause. The fact is, I really do want to know. Securing exhibits is a huge part of the job, and if I’m going to move up in the museum I need some of whatever secret sauce Jake has going on. “I mean it,” I add, when Jake just answers with an infuriatingly mysterious shrug. “I’m maybe, kind of, just a little impressed.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Was that, no, could you have possibly just given me a compliment?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I sigh. I knew he’d take it and run. “I get it.”
“No, I mean, this is great.” He sits back in an arrogant pose. “I knew you’d recognize my innate superiority eventually, but you came around so soon.”
“That would make it the first time,” I shoot back, and he laughs.
“You’ll never let me forget that, will you?”
“Nope.” I grin. “You have to admit, as bad hook-ups go, ours takes the . . . cronut.”
Jake laughs, grinning back at me. “Hey, if I’m going to do anything, I go all out. And if I’m going to be a shitty anecdote for you, I’m going to damn well be the shittiest date you’ve ever been on.”
I laugh. God, this guy is impossible.
And impossibly sexy. Damn, with that smile, and those eyes, it’s almost enough to make a girl try for a repeat performance—
No! Bad Lizzie!
I take another gulp of wine. “But seriously, how do you do it? I mean, I remember you always had a skill for tracking down impossible things, you talked about it all those years ago. But some of the stuff I asked for was ridiculous, like the prop necklace from Bring Me the Stars. That’s an iconic piece, but it hasn’t been seen in forty years.”
Jake clears his throat. “About that . . . when I said I got everything, I meant everything in the realm of human possibility. The necklace is even beyond my ample talents. Sorry.”
“Oh.” I deflate a little. “That’s OK. I mean,
I knew it was a long shot. Still, there’s so much history around it. You know the stories, right?”
Jake frowns. “It was custom made for the movie by Harry Winston, wasn’t it?”
I nod eagerly. “They made two versions: one was costume gemstones for the movie, but then the producer had them make a real version with diamonds to give to the lead actress, Moira Hayes. Rumor has it, they were having a torrid affair. They died in a car crash together, went right off Mulholland Drive on the way to an Oscars party. Everyone said the movie was cursed.”
I love scandals from old Hollywood. They’re somehow way more glamorous than what Ben and Jen and whatever the Kardashians are up to right now.
“Now there’s karma for you.” Jake whistles. “Guess he should have kept it in his pants.”
I pause. “I’d have thought you would be cheering him on. Another notch on the bedpost, and all that.”
Jake shakes his head. “Hell no. I may not buy into all your romance bullshit, but basic human decency doesn’t require roses. No cheating, no lying, no games.” He ticks them off on his fingers. “Be honest, and nobody gets hurt.”
“Oh.” I have to say I’m surprised. And weirdly turned on right now. Maybe Jake Weston isn’t the Grade A asshole I thought.
Then his eyes go to check out the stacked blonde sashaying past, and I reassess. Grade B, perhaps.
“Anyway, I’m sorry, but I couldn’t get a bite on the necklace.” Jake drags his eyes back to me. “But I did find someone who worked on the movie, Max Danforth. He’s in his eighties now, out in LA still. He has a bunch of props and materials from the shoot, I’m trading calls with his assistant to see what we could use.”
“Are you kidding?” I stare at him, amazed. “That’s incredible! The movie was such a seminal work, I feel like if we’re going to make any commentary on shifting gender norms, we need something from that era, and Bring Me the Stars was the start of a whole shift in . . .” I trail off. Jake is looking at me strangely.
“What?” I ask, self-conscious. “Do I have wine teeth already?”
“No, I just . . .” Jake pauses, tilting his head. “You really love this stuff, don’t you.”
“Yes,” I say emphatically. “Ever since I was a kid. Movies like this, they show us a different version of the world. They push culture on, and break barriers down, and give us a language to relate to each other. It took me forever to convince Morgan to let me stage this show, but if I can just make it work, I know, it’s going to be amazing.”
“Well, alright then.” Jake lifts his glass and taps it to mine. “To Old Hollywood.”
“To Old—”
I stop dead. “No, no, no . . .” I whimper, seeing someone across the room. Jake turns. “Don’t look!” I hiss at him, then sink lower in my seat, trying to hide out of sight. “Maybe he won’t see me. Maybe he won’t . . .”
“Lizzie!”
Drat!
I haul myself upright and paste on a smile as Todd waves and heads over. My ex-boyfriend Todd. The man who shredded my heart like Guy Fieri with a butt of pulled pork. The guy I haven’t seen since he left me in the dust for the blond nymph of a woman he’s dragging along behind him.
“Kill me now,” I murmur to Jake. “Seriously. Just stick that fork right in my throat. If you do it hard enough, you’ll hit an artery, right?”
He looks totally confused, but before I can explain, Todd arrives at the table.
“Well, well,” he says good-naturedly. “Long time no see.”
Long time no see? That’s the best he can come up with after pulverizing my heart and leaving me in a Tinder desert?
“Hey Todd,” I say breezily, like I run into evil exes all the fucking time. “How’s it going?”
“Things are great,” he says firmly. He pulls the girl in front of him like he’s holding up a trophy. “Especially since Harmony and I just got engaged last night!”
Harmony gives me a simpering smile, like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, and I have the urge to pick up my half-eaten plate of spaghetti and dump it over her perfectly styled head.
“Wow!” I gasp, feigning excitement. “How wonderful for you both! I mean, you guys clearly deserve each other!”
“Thank you,” he says, staring into Harmony’s eyes like he wants to disappear.
“This is Jake Weston,” I say, waiting for Todd to come back to earth.
“Hey man,” Todd says coolly, nodding his head at Jake, who just stares at him silently. “Well, we should be going,” Todd continues, wrapping an arm around Harmony and squeezing her tight.
“We’re on our way to Tiffany’s!” Harmony squeals, and I realize that I really may throw up if they don’t leave soon.
I nod wordlessly and smile. I don’t trust myself enough in this moment to actually open my mouth and speak. God knows what might come out.
“It was great running into you, Lizzie,” Todd says, reaching out and briefly squeezing my shoulder. “You’re looking very . . . healthy,” he says with a smirk, taking in my half eaten plate of food before turning around and heading for the door, his arms wrapped around Harmony’s shoulders.
I slide horizontal in the booth until I’m laying flat, staring at the underside of the table.
“Lizzie?” Jake’s voice comes, but it’s kind of hard to hear through the swirling rage of anger and self-loathing and misery and general doomsday despair.
Healthy.
The bastard called me healthy! And he sure doesn’t mean it looks like I’ve been hitting the gym, either.
SUPER RAT.
12
Lizzie
Through the haze of my embarrassment and despair, I hear Jake’s voice speaking softly to the server, ordering drinks. When I finally look up, our plates have disappeared and a margarita with a shot of Cuervo is waiting in front of me.
“I thought a real drink was in order after that,” he says, gesturing to the martini in front of him, the vodka clear and cool as an ice floe. “Your infamous ex, I take it?”
“Gee, how did you guess?” I throw the shot back first before licking the salted rim of my glass.
“I’m quick that way,” he says, and I notice that there’s no sarcasm in his voice. He’s looking at me with sympathy, and that’s when I know I’m in trouble.
“I know I should be over him,” I sigh, gulping my margarita down in one before I come up for air. “And I am! But it still fucking hurts. I mean, look at him: he screwed me over, and he still got the fancy job and the perfect girlfriend. I thought karma would bitchslap him for me, but clearly, there’s no such thing as justice in this world. His life is even better than when he left me! But mine’s still a mess.”
The alcohol hits my bloodstream with a fiery burn. I reach over and pluck the olives out of his glass, and before he can protest, I pop them in my mouth. Mmm. Blue cheese stuffed. What can I say? You snooze, you lose. I call for the waiter again. “Another round,” I say, since Jake’s buying. “But I’ll have one of those,” I point to his glass. “Extra olives.”
The waiter scurries away, and Jake raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure? It’s one p.m.”
“You’re really going to pick this battle?” I ask. “He called me fat!” I drain the dregs of my wine glass for good measure.
“He didn’t—” Jake stops when I glare. “OK, he did, but he’s a fucking douchebag. You’ve known that for years. Why are you letting him get to you?”
“Because he WON.”
The waiter brings our drinks in double-quick time, so I knock mine back then start on Jake’s too. “Everyone knows there’s a winner and a loser to every breakup,” I explain. “The one who gets to live an awesome life, and the one who’s left crying in the dust. I figured maybe, in time, I could even the scales. You know, the hare and the tortoise, it’s a marathon not a sprint.” I know I’m mixing my metaphors here, but the booze is definitely hitting me now, and it feels good. Numb and hazy and better than feeling like an anvil just crashed into my chest, that’s for
sure. “Sure, he used me and dumped me and stole the best, most pert years of my life, but it was early days! He could get fired, and Harmony could pass along a pesky STD, and he could get hooked on high-price dominatrices and spend his life savings and wind up living in a grotty shared apartment with annoying NYU students lamenting how his life went downhill ever since he left me. There was hope!” I bang the table for emphasis, and Jake tries not to laugh.
“So, keep hoping,” he grins, trying to pry his martini out of my hand. I snatch it away.
“No hope! I mean, look at him. At them. They’re perfect. He upgraded to the life he’s supposed to have, and I’m stuck here.”
“With a great job, and friends, having lunch with a charming, handsome man,” Jake says. “Sounds pretty good to me.”
“I know, I know,” I sigh. “I have a good thing going. But did you see the way he looked at her? I want someone to look at me like that.”
“With a squint?”
I snort. “He always did have a lazy eye.”
“There you go, think of it as a lucky escape.” Jake grins. “Between his squint, and her rabbit little teeth, their kids are going to need some serious health insurance.”
“And therapy,” I add, more cheerful. I finish his drink, and grab my purse. “I guess we should get back . . .”
“To the office?” Jake laughs. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“I’m fine!” I stand up abruptly—and then slump back down as the room starts to spin. “Shit, I’m drunk.” For some reason—probably two martinis, a margarita and a glass of wine—the thought seems hilarious. I break out in uncontrollable giggles.
“Real sober.” Jake gets the check, then gently helps lift me out of the booth.
“Shhh,” I whisper, trying to put one foot in front of the other. “It’s a secret!”
“Easy there.” He manages to guide me to the exit without any major mishaps, his arms wrapped tightly around my waist.
Mmmm. His arms. Does he work out, I wonder? He must, to get biceps like that. And rock-hard abs, and his ass—
