by Wendy Wax
“Things just got out of control. I had to support him, didn’t I?” Mitch says. “And she had morning sickness the whole time. And then she couldn’t afford childcare, so she had to stay home with him.”
Each admission is a gunshot to my chest, a hole in my heart.
“I just . . . everything spiraled all to hell. And . . . I love you. I’m still attracted to you.” He offers this as if it’s some great gift, then steps closer. “I can fix this.”
I slap him with every ounce of fury and hurt I possess. “You have clearly lost your mind. I’m done. We were finished the minute you started sleeping with her, only I didn’t know it.” For once, I am too angry to cry. “Clear out your things. I’ll be changing the locks after work.”
He looks shocked to the core. I have never spoken to anyone this harshly or with this much certainty.
His mother gasps in the kitchen.
“Come on out, Dorothy,” I call.
When she limps out to the foyer, I look at the two of them. “I’m pretty sure your mother is expecting you to take her with you. Or at least back to her own house.”
I nod to my mother-in-law. “You always made me feel like I wasn’t good enough for your son. But it’s your son who isn’t good enough for me.”
I’m about to make my exit when Mitch says, “I, um, can’t take her with me.”
“What?” Dorothy and I Greek chorus.
He shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot. “There’s no room for her in the Birmingham apartment. And I’m a little short on funds, so I can’t take a bigger place.”
“Then take her home.”
He winces and gets this odd hangdog look on his face. “I can’t do that, either.”
“Why not?” Dorothy and I chorus once again.
“Because I had to stop making her mortgage payments so that I’d have the cash to support Margot and Mitch Junior without you finding out.” He swallows and drops his eyes. “I . . . the bank has foreclosed and I . . . there’s nothing I can do about it.”
Dorothy’s face reveals every bit of horror that I feel. Mitch cosigned the mortgage when Dorothy refinanced her home, and agreed to make the monthly payments until he’d paid back the money he’d borrowed from her.
“Are you telling me that you’ve lost your mother’s home and now you’re planning to just walk away and leave her here? What in the world is wrong with you?”
a·ghast
/əˈgast/
adjective
filled with horror or shock
Ex: “I am aghast at how ugly and self-centered my husband has proven himself to be.”
Thirteen
Jazmine
On the first of February, the snow everyone was forecasting for Christmas arrives, and everything, including Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport, raises its hands and surrenders. Every time it snows here in Atlanta, we embarrass ourselves on the global stage. Frankly, I think everyone, including the equally inexperienced former Southern Californian Rich Hanson, needs to cut us some slack.
I point this out to him when he laughs at the tiny amount of snow required to shut the city down. IMHO, expecting Atlanta to have snow-moving equipment waiting for the rare snowfall that sticks is like expecting Yakutsk, Siberia, to be perfectly air-conditioned on the off chance it hits ninety for a couple of hours one day.
I tell myself that nothing Rich Hanson says can bother me. Because Sony is begging me to get Tyrone Browning to sign a multiyear endorsement deal that will, in fact, put Luther Hemmings’s five million in the piggy bank range. I believe this until I run into him coming out of Larry’s office, where he seems to spend an inordinate amount of time.
“Saw a picture of your new client and his girlfriend,” he says, referring to Kaden Sizemore, who happens to be the MVP QB of the Outback Bowl. “She’s not exactly destined to hit the list of Hottest Athlete WAGs.”
“Really?” WAGs is shorthand for wives and girlfriends. Certain troglodyte sports writers still like to debate (and continue to write about) which athletes have the hottest girlfriends and wives. “You think the fact that he doesn’t need a showy girlfriend makes him weak?”
“Everyone knows it indicates a lack of confidence,” he replies.
“Only dinosaurs think that way. And we all know what happened to them,” I say. “I have a helluva lot more respect for a man—and athlete—who doesn’t need a model to boost his confidence.”
I look him up and down. “Do you ever have serious relationships with real women who can string whole multi-word sentences together?”
“Me?” Hanson asks. “I think the pot may have just called the kettle black. At least from what I hear.”
I clench my jaw to keep from calling him all the names that are springing to my lips. When my phone rings, I answer it without looking. I’d rather listen to a telemarketer right now than Rich Hanson.
“Wow. I can’t believe you picked up,” my sister says. “I was going to leave you a message. But since I’ve got you, I need you to agree to a double date with us and Derrick Warren on Friday night.”
“This Friday night?” I let a pleased smile curve my lips. “You know I’d love to, but I’m afraid I’m already committed. How about the Friday after that?”
Thea is stunned into silence by my sudden capitulation but recovers quickly. “That’s the twelfth, Jazz, and I’m holding you to it.”
“Wonderful. I promise it’ll be worth the wait.” My voice is almost a purr as I hang up. I give Hanson an innocent look. “I’m sorry, what were you saying?”
When he turns and stalks silently away, I barely resist the urge to fist-pump. I’m smiling as I sail to my office. “Louise, please get Erin on the phone for me.”
“But I thought you were still . . .”
“I’ve spoken to your entire list of candidates, and we’re running out of time. The job is Erin’s if she wants it.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I know Louise is not happy when she ‘ma’am’s me, but this is my decision after all. By the time I’m at my desk, she has Erin on the line.
“Erin?”
“Yes. Hello.” Erin’s voice sounds a bit like Judith’s was at her house after the funeral. But then loss is loss, as I know too well.
“I’m calling to offer you the job as my assistant.”
This is the third stunned silence in under ten minutes.
“You must not have heard about Josh and me. He . . .”
“I heard. And I’m truly sorry, Erin. You got a raw deal. Life, and this business in particular, is full of them. But if you’re in the market for a job, I’m offering you one.”
“But . . . everyone there will know. I’ll have to face Josh.”
“Yes,” I agree, not entirely sure if she’s speaking to herself or to me. “It won’t be easy. But then I wouldn’t be offering you this position if I didn’t think you could handle difficult situations.”
The silence on the other end crackles. I imagine I can hear her thinking, weighing. But as much as I’d like to have her on my team, I’m certainly not going to beg.
“So, what’s it going to be, Erin? You’re my first choice, but there are plenty of qualified candidates.”
“Yes, I know,” she says quickly. “I can’t thank you enough for the offer and for your faith in me.”
I feel an odd smile tug at my lips. I honestly can’t tell whether she’s about to accept or decline.
“Is tomorrow too soon to start?”
Erin
It feels pretty great to have an actual reason to get out of bed, take a shower, wash my hair, and put on makeup. Not crying while I do those things feels even better. I arrive at the office embarrassingly early, something I plan to blame on yesterday’s snowstorm if anyone comments. (Hey, we got a whole inch, and everyone’s still freaking out.) Tyler told me Josh is out of town, so at leas
t I don’t have to worry about running into him. Still, I hang out in the lobby for a while and let several elevators go without me while I work up my nerve. When I check in at the front desk, eagle-eyed for any sign of pity or surprise, Gayle, the receptionist, just smiles and tells me that Louise is expecting me.
There are brief hushes followed by murmurs as I pass by the assistants and agents-in-training that sit outside their bosses’ offices, but although my legs feel Jell-O-y, I’m here because Jazmine chose me. I manage to keep my chin up, a vague smile on my lips, and my eyes straight ahead.
“Good morning,” Louise greets me when I reach the relative safety of her desk. “Why don’t you hang up your coat and go get yourself a cup of coffee before we get started.”
“I’m all set, thanks,” I say as I remove my coat and hang it on the nearest peg. “I’m completely caffeinated and ready to go to work.”
Her expression says she knows I’m afraid to walk the gauntlet again and will starve before I brave the break room, but her tone is more motherly than drill sergeant. “So, here’s survival tip number one: When you work in a shark tank, you need to learn how to master your fear. Or at least mask it. Otherwise you’ll get ripped apart.”
“Got it.” My chin goes up another notch so that I’m practically staring at the ceiling. My shoulders go up around my ears. “No sudden moves. And no flailing or thrashing.”
This wins me a smile. “All right, then. Let’s get started. I only have nine workdays to turn you into me.”
We go over Jazmine’s schedule—despite the snow, she’s in the air and on her way to Indianapolis for the NFL Scouting Combine, which will last all week. Next week, she’ll attend a number of smaller pro days around the country. After that, Louise explains how Jazmine likes information laid out and delivered. How important it is to anticipate Jazmine’s every need. We scroll through her list of clients, which is way bigger and stronger than I realized and contains notes on their likes and dislikes, parents, spouses, children, girlfriends, birthdays, anniversaries, et cetera.
“Just to be clear, this is confidential information,” Louise says. “It is never to be shared with anyone, or even hinted at. Your lips are sealed. You are the Sphinx. Sometimes, despite best efforts, there are leaks. None of those leaks can come from you. A breach of any kind in this regard is grounds for immediate dismissal. Clear?”
“Crystal.” I cross my heart and hold my hand up as if I’m swearing fealty, which, of course, I am. Jazmine has given me this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and I am going to prove her confidence in me.
“A few statistics to bear in mind: Only five percent of certified NFL agents are female. The forty-one women with active certification represent a fifty percent increase since 2010. Only twenty-one had a client signed to an NFL contract in 2017. Jazmine has two and has just signed what she’s convinced will be a future high-round draft pick. A lot of women took a lot of shit so that you could have this opportunity. You need to prove your worth and pay it forward as you rise.”
I nod because I know that women have been knocking on these doors for a long time even though they rarely opened.
“‘No’ is a word you’re going to hear a lot,” Louise continues. “You will have to get used to it or find another line of work. You can’t turn that ‘no’ into a ‘yes’ if you fold up your tent every time someone puts an obstacle in front of you.
“Jazmine is all about outworking the competition. She does not offer lip service or make false claims, and neither can you. If she makes a promise to a client, she finds a way to keep it. She is not about setting unrealistic expectations.” Louise raises an eyebrow.
“Got it.”
“Client prospecting is crucial, and this requires gathering player intel. Part of that is assessing a player’s online presence. What is and is not on social media can provide important clues.”
She hands me a stack of printouts. “Here’s the list of athletes Jazmine wants you to look at this morning. Please prepare a report on each of them. I’d like those reports on my desk by noon. We’ve got a hell of a lot of ground to cover.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I manage not to salute. But I am ready to absorb every last bit of knowledge she’s willing to share. I’m going to impress the hell out of Louise and Jazmine or die in the attempt.
Jazmine
You’re not really holding me to this double date thing r you? I text my sister from the Dallas airport just before I board the plane back to Atlanta on Thursday afternoon more to yank her chain than to try to get out of the blind date with Derrick Warren. I’m going to get this out of the way so that Thea will stop bugging me about it once and for all.
I am. Yes is yes. 8PM. Mission + Market.
Yep. Got all 6 confirms.
Ur in town right?
I will be.
Good. No emergencies, contingencies, excuses. Zero wiggle room. Pick u up or meet there?
I’m almost shocked to be given this choice, and know I have Jamal to thank. C u there.
There’s a hesitation, and I know she’s debating whether to remind me one more time that if I don’t show she will come hunt me down. Wanna pick out my outfit, too?
Just make sure u wear ur smile!
Erin
I have just completed nine long, some might say brutal, days attempting to become Louise Lloyd’s clone. Or at least as close as a heartbroken twenty-three-year-old white girl can get.
Louise is a miracle of thought and efficiency who can get more done in thirty minutes than most of us can do in a day. If you look up “impressive” in the dictionary, I’m pretty sure her picture will be there.
We have been the first ones in and the last to leave each day. As far as I can see, she has two basic settings—motherly but professional and bulldozer—and she can switch between them faster than most people can breathe. Most impressively, she does not take one single ounce of shit from anyone, including the CEO, catered-to clients, and Rich Hanson. Who has a tendency to loiter around Jazmine’s office an awful lot for someone whom Jazmine can’t stand the sight of.
Today is Louise’s last day. Jazmine is back in town and acting for all she’s worth as if it’s just another workday, but underneath her game face she looks kind of shaky.
At noon, the two of them leave for a two-and-a-half-hour lunch that Jazmine doesn’t return from. Louise says something “came up,” but I’m guessing Jazmine just couldn’t bear to watch Louise leave for the last time. For the record, despite how glad I am to have Louise’s job, I’m not looking forward to watching her leave, either.
For the rest of the afternoon, I answer the phone and handle what has to be done while StarSports employees from Larry Carpenter down to the lowliest interns stop by to say goodbye. A lot of them bring small gifts, which I wish I had thought of. The ones who know her best bring chocolate. For such a no-nonsense person, she is surprisingly beloved.
I bite back a whimper at exactly five p.m. when she shrugs into her coat, hefts her bag of gifts, and smiles a final mother lioness smile—one that both threatens and protects. And though her voice is not quite as deep as Mufasa’s, her last words of advice are worthy of the Lion King himself. “Remember,” she says with quiet certainty, “inner strength has nothing to do with size or age or color. It comes from meeting things head-on. You are smart and quick and resilient. Own up to your mistakes and learn from them. And never, ever let them see you cry.”
Jazmine
I totally respect Louise for wanting to be there for her mother, but after our goodbye lunch, I spent most of the afternoon trying not to think about how much I’m going to miss her. I distracted myself by contemplating the clothes in my closet. I briefly considered taking my sister at her word and doing a Lady Godiva and wearing only a smile. Then I considered dressing down in some kind of mousy brown wren thing that would render me uninteresting, but it turned out my ego wouldn’t allow it. Plus, m
y sister would probably kill me.
Ultimately, I arrive at the restaurant in my leopard print Louboutin booties with the black leather trim and a black wool Alexander McQueen minidress that hugs my curves and that I plan to wear until it falls apart.
Heads turn as I’m shown to the table. It’s impossible to go unnoticed if you’re a female over six feet. I learned early not to slump or try to shave off even an inch. My height and muscle mass were huge assets to my tennis game. They’ve served me equally well in my current profession, where the worst thing that can happen to you is to go unnoticed.
Jamal and Derrick stand when I arrive, and I’m surprised to discover that I have to look up to meet Derrick’s eyes and his smile, both of which are friendly and easygoing.
My sister’s smile carries a whole lot of “I told you so.”
When Derrick shakes my hand, then pulls out the empty chair beside him, she adds an approving nod.
Under cover of drink ordering and opening conversation, I check the man out. His hair is closely cropped, and his face sports that five-o’clock shadow that says he cares about his appearance but doesn’t try too hard. His features carry a hint of something exotic, and his voice holds the faintest trace of the islands. There’s a bit of twinkle to his dark eyes.
“So, at last we meet,” he says.
“They are a persistent duo.”
“Yes. But clearly they did not exaggerate. You are most beautiful.” His gaze lingers in an appreciative but not icky way. “I understand that you are a sports agent?”
I laugh. “They didn’t send you my complete résumé?”
“Just a brief bio, I’m afraid.”
“Shocking.”
“Yes. I believe they were attempting to show restraint. But I did not require urging. I trust Jamal’s judgment in most things. And he and Thea have been truly wonderful. As a newcomer, I appreciate the hospitality and the occasional home-cooked meal.”
