by Tia Williams
“But it would be perfect,” said Brian, overriding what she’d just said. “I’ve been thinking about this. We could have the wedding in early May, before everyone starts leaving for the summer. A private ceremony with our closest friends on our rooftop. A reception at the MOMA. Remember the year that Amfar had their gala there?”
“The MOMA? I wouldn’t want my wedding day to feel like a charity ball.”
He ignored her. “You could quit that terrible job. I could bankroll an interior design business for you. Personal styling. Anything.”
“I’m no fan of Darcy, but I’ve been incredibly successful at my job. I’m proud of my work there.”
“You’re not proud. It must be humiliating being Darcy’s employee,” he said, brushing her off. “Anyway, after we have the baby, I’d get you a nanny and a wet nurse. And a weekend au pair. All my associates’ wives have them. I’ve done my research.”
“Three nannies? Why would I have a baby I never spent time with?”
“Well, we’d have five or six social engagements to attend a week. That’s just the reality of our lives together.”
Flushing hot with frustration, Jenna slipped off her pashmina and held it in her lap. “Brian, listen to you. You haven’t changed. You’re still trying to control me, and you can’t do that anymore.”
“I’m just being thorough. Listen…”
“No, you listen,” she said calmly, but sternly. “A while ago, I gave a young girl advice about men. I said she shouldn’t wait for a guy to decide what her future would look like. That she should be the decider. I didn’t know it then, but I was talking to myself. I waited for you for years. And…” She looked at him. “And now I’m over it.”
She listened to her own words, and wondered if she was going to take her own advice. Was she going to wait until Eric was ready to be a father—when she was near fifty and menopausal—to realize her dream? What Jenna needed, he couldn’t give her anytime soon. These were facts. There would be no compromise. If they stayed together, one would be forcing the other to commit to their terms. And one of them would lose—most likely, her.
Jenna had her fill of putting her needs second to a man’s. And what this might mean for her and Eric, the person she really wanted the fairy tale with, ran her blood cold.
“It’s a lovely offer,” said Jenna, “but I don’t want it anymore.”
“Oh, JJ,” said Brian, his voice lacking energy, his face slack with disappointment, “I’m not surprised. You just want what every woman wants.”
“What’s that?”
“What she can’t have.”
Jenna didn’t answer, letting him believe this. His opinion no longer mattered. She handed him her champagne glass, and stood up.
“Goodbye, Brian,” said Jenna, knowing that she’d never speak to him again. She walked off into the night, sparkling with a clarity she’d never felt—and at the same time, carrying a dread so overwhelming that she feared it might crush her.
CHAPTER 29
“She’s a singer-songwriter,” said Eric, “so her video could be a visual representation of the words in her single. It’s a top 10 record, so people are familiar with it. She says something about writing haikus in a field of daisies, so I could shoot some pickup of that. There’s a line about smoking in an outdoor shower. Maybe I could set that up.”
“I don’t know,” said Karen, who had called an impromptu editorial meeting on Monday morning to decide how to handle Misty Cox’s Perfect Find video. The singer was the biggest name they’d ever filmed. The red-headed executive editor usually gave Eric and Jenna carte blanche with the videos—they’d been such a smash. But Misty wasn’t just a fashionable “real” person or a model—she was a pop star with an agent, a management team, and record label execs behind her. So, when Karen got the call that Misty was interested, she knew she needed to give it extra attention.
“I don’t think we want to show smoking,” she said. “It’s not politically correct.”
“It’s just a line in the song, Karen,” he said. “It’s not literal.”
“Well, what are some other lines?”
“Honestly? Those were the best two ones. Let it be known that I find her music to be utter trash.”
“I love her,” said Jinx. “She’s a slutty Taylor Swift.”
“Taylor Swift is a slutty Taylor Swift,” said Mitchell.
“Word,” said Terry. “I love how she maintains her good-girl image when she’s boned every dude in Us Weekly.”
“No smoking, Eric,” said Karen. “I can guarantee that Universal wouldn’t go for that.”
“Her name is Misty Cox,” said Eric, his voice dripping with disdain. “The label sent her out into the world with a porn star name. I doubt they’d trip over a Marlboro Light.”
“Do I have to say it again?” asked Karen, surprised at his attitude. Eric always stood up for what he believed in, artistically, but never with such petulance. “Come up with something else.”
He shrugged, his body language radiating exasperation. “Whatever you say.”
“Why are you in such a bad mood, E?” asked Jinx in her sing-songy whine. She rested her hand on his arm.
“I’m not in a bad mood,” he lied. He was in a terrible mood. Jenna was sitting five feet across from him, he hadn’t spoken to her all weekend, and he didn’t know where they stood. That was the worst part. Not the actual fight at May’s party, but having no idea what it meant.
“This is not me in a bad mood,” continued Eric. “This is me, trying to make something out of nothing. This is me, trying to figure out how to make a girl who rhymes ‘daisy’ with ‘Bolognese’ seem interesting. Yo, she pronounced the ‘e’ at the end of Bolognese. What do I do with that?”
“Well, this is an important shoot,” said Karen. “You need to figure it out soon.”
“When have I not figured it out? Given my track record, I feel like I should’ve be trusted to make the right decisions.”
“I agree,” said Jinx. “I think we should give him the space to create, right?”
Karen glared at her. “Jinx, either ask him out or take a seat. It’s becoming uncomfortable to watch.” Jinx gasped with embarrassment. “Jenna, what’s your input?”
Like Eric, Jenna was not in a great mood. But instead of getting prickly, she handled the weirdness between them by going mute. Over the past two days, Eric and Jenna had missed each other completely, literally and figuratively. First, Eric ignored her calls, then she missed his when she was with Brian—and when she called him back, it went straight to voice mail.
But she had no idea what she was going to say to him, anyway. The one thing she knew she definitely couldn’t say was where she’d been on Saturday night. He’d never understand, and he’d never get over it.
But what I think I might have to tell him is so much worse, thought Jenna.
“Jenna?” Karen addressed her, again.
“Sorry.” Jenna, who hadn’t devoted two seconds to thinking about Misty Cox’s Perfect Find, kept things diplomatic. “I like Eric’s idea about bringing some of her lyrics to life. But you’re right, it’s just about finding the right ones. Which we will.”
“Love it,” she answered. “I know you two’ll come up with something cool. EOD today, please.”
An hour later, Jenna still didn’t have any usable ideas. Her brain was too cloudy. She couldn’t focus on the silly-named Misty Cox without thinking of Eric. And she couldn’t think of Eric without getting stuck in a quicksand of confusion. So, she decided she needed a creative palate cleanser—which was focusing on busy work around the office, things she never got around to doing. She’d just gotten a huge shipment of summer pieces—bikinis, sundresses, strappy sandals, sunglasses—and it was time to replace the springy clothes from the fashion closets. Even though StyleZine had interns to work on inventory, Jenna felt like doing it herself. And since the fashion closet on her floor was filled to bursting, she loaded up the clothes on a rolling rack, wheeled them t
o the elevator, and took them up to the 10th floor closet.
Jenna was knee-deep in color-coding tankinis when she heard a knock on the door.
“Come in, it’s open,” she yelled.
She looked up from the cluster of bathing suits in her hands. “Hey.” It was Eric. He locked the door.
“Hey.” Jenna dropped the bathing suits to the floor. “I’m sorry. For everything.”
“No, I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m don’t know what happened, or who was wrong or why, but I’m sorry.”
“It was me,” said Jenna, grasping her hands together. “I’m to blame. And I…”
Eric’s mouth was on hers before she could complete the thought. They kissed with grasping desperation, like two dying people breathing their souls back into each other. When Eric felt Jenna crumble a little in his arms, he scooped her up and laid her on the table. And there, the whole world fell away.
They’d done this dozens of times, in a dozen different ways, and the details in the little closet—the racks of clothes, the accessories-stuffed bins—had always been the same. But today, one thing was different. And if they’d looked up, they would’ve noticed. On the ceiling, in the right hand corner, was a small black security camera, the blinking red light signifying that it was recording every minute.
Jenna sat on top of her desk, in a sex haze. She was still breathless. Her heart was still throbbing, her legs still liquid. Eric always did this to her. He dismantled her, and nothing felt more right.
So why, now that she was back in her office, had she fished into her wallet to find Rosie the Riveter’s business card?
Call me if you ever want pregnancy advice, she’d said. Freeze your eggs. Adopt. Get donor sperm. I know a brilliant fertility specialist.
She held the card in her hand and her phone in the other. Rosie the Riveter, whose real name was Lisa Defozio, had offered to help her. But help her do what? Help her get knocked up by some stranger’s sperm she picked up at a bank (didn’t she read that homeless junkies donated sperm to pay for their drug habit)? Have a baby that was fertilized in a lab (seemed so cold)? Adopt a stunning Ethiopian girl who looked like Zahara Jolie-Pitt (did she have a baby sister somewhere in Addis Ababa)? These weren’t the ways that Jenna had imagined herself becoming a mother, but dammit, they were choices. They opened up a world of possibilities. It was freedom.
Every cell in her body came alive at the thought of being able to go out and get what she wanted, without permission. Without negotiating with someone else.
Someone else.
Then, she crumpled the card in her hand. She couldn’t bring herself to call. Because she couldn’t entertain these thoughts without accepting that they left Eric out of the equation. She couldn’t call Lisa without being willing to give him up. And the thought was unfathomable.
How could she possibly let him go?
Jenna covered her mouth with the back of her hand, feeling queasy. Then, she clutched her stomach, grabbed the trashcan under her desk and threw up.
Sweating and shaking, she sat back up and gripped the edge of the desk for support. There was a terrible lump in her throat, and she was trembling all over. Her stomach lurched again, and she took a couple of deep breaths to calm it down.
God, not now. I can’t start stress-hurling now.
This had happened her entire life. Before the SAT’s. The night she decided to quit medical school and move to New York. The worst was when she was a twenty-four-year-old assistant editor and her boss went into labor—and, all by herself, she had to present a March fashion spread in a meeting with Oscar de la Renta and Bruce Weber.
Panicking, she knew she had to go home. It was only 1pm, but she had to get out of there.
She grabbed her purse and shot out of her office, slamming the door. Everyone in the cubicles looked up, including Eric. The rest of the staff went back to their business, but when he saw the look on her face—sallow, stricken, with bright pink blotches on her cheeks—he dropped his camera on his desk.
He mouthed, “You okay?”
She couldn’t let anyone see her like that, especially not him. So she put her head down, and speed-walked down the hallway.
Eric sat at his desk, fidgeting with worry. He wanted to run after her, but knew it would be so incriminating. He tried to wait a respectable amount of time, but after roughly thirty seconds, he bolted out of his chair, caught an elevator, and was gone. He didn’t give a damn what anybody thought. Jenna was in trouble.
In her palatial office, Darcy sat behind her desk, chewing on the business end of a pen. She observed Jenna sprint out of the office, followed shamelessly closely by Eric. She also observed that one else noticed. Darcy didn’t know what she loathed more—that they’d had the balls to carry out this affair, or that she hadn’t picked up on it. Because it was so terribly obvious.
She almost wanted to laugh. This was going to be good.
CHAPTER 30
Fighting off persistent waves of nausea, Jenna stood on the corner of Broadway and Bleecker, just outside the StyleZine offices, waiting for the light to change.
Everything will be fine, just calm down, get on the train, and get home.
Where you can vomit in peace.
But just as the light changed and she made a move to cross, she saw Eric storm out of their office building. She wasn’t ready to confront whatever she was feeling about their situation; she just wanted to go home and think. But before she could make a run for it, he saw her, rushed over, and pulled her into a strong hug. She hung on to him, seeing stars.
“Jesus, Jenna, what’s going on?”
“We have to talk. There’s so much I need to say to you, but I don’t know how, or what…”
“Shhh, we’re not doing this here. Come on,” he said, hailing a cab. He half-dragged her into the taxi. She slumped against his shoulder, her eyes closed.
“260 West Broadway,” he told the driver. “At Beach.”
“The American Thread Building? That’s where you live?” It was a Downtown Manhattan historical landmark with a zillion luxury condos.
“Yeah, my step-dad signed the condo over to her in the settlement. I think she roofied him first.”
Suddenly, Jenna’s eyes flew open and she sat up. “Wait, we’re going to your place? Darcy’s place? Are you crazy?”
“It’s closest. Jenna, you’re green. We have to get you somewhere, fast.”
“No! What if Darcy comes home?”
“It’s noon, she won’t be there ‘til at least eight,” said Eric. “Just relax. Here, lay down.”
As Jenna gingerly laid her head in Eric’s lap, trying to keep her breakfast bagel down, she tried to process this information. They were going to Darcy’s apartment. His apartment. This had never been an option, for obvious reasons. She’d always wondered what his at-home life looked like, what his bedroom looked like, where his things were, how he moved in those surroundings.
The cab pulled up to the huge 1800s Renaissance Revival building, and Eric got a shaky-legged Jenna to the double doors. He gave the portly doorman a pound and, in his ear, whispered, “What’s good, Raul. Forget you ever saw her here, okay? I’ll bring you those J’s you liked. For your son. I only wore them once.” Raul gave the thumbs up sign and grinned. And then, holding Jenna’s hand, he led her around the lobby’s imposing staircase to the elevators, where they went up to the seventh floor.
When they entered the apartment, it was like stepping into boutique hotel in Milan. It was airy and all-white, punctuated with sleek mahogany floors, doors, and staircases, dazzling objet d’art chandeliers; and sculptural plum and gold furniture. There were no family pictures on the walls, nothing personal at all. The apartment was arrestingly chic—but cold, spare, and uninviting.
Eric led Jenna behind the subway-tiled, white marble countertop kitchen and into a large, loft-like bedroom, with an ultra-modern bathroom. His bedroom. The space itself was lovely. But, as Jenna noted with almost-numb astonishment, it was the room of a kid
who’d just come home from college, and had left it untouched since high school.
Eric had two desks that were overrun with film research books, textbooks from Art & Design HS, yearbooks, marble-faced composition pads filled with class notes, and all kinds of school miscellanea. There were wall-to-wall Nike, Adidas and Puma boxes. He had a coat rack full of baseball caps in a corner, and posters of Kobe Bryant taped to the wall. There was a pile of unfolded laundry on a director’s chair. An empty pizza box.
For the first time, it truly hit Jenna how young he really was. The bedroom was what broadcasted his youth—not the video games, not the Millennial speak, not the fact that when he bent over, nothing happened to his stomach (not even the eensiest pooch of skin). It looked like the lair of a virgin—of an early teen just graduated from Little League and Power Rangers. It was Theo Huxtable’s season-one bedroom. It wasn’t the bedroom of a middle-aged woman’s life partner.
Eric ran her a hot bath in his sunken tub. While she soaked, he sat on top of the toilet next to the tub, his feet up on the sink. She was too peaky to talk, so he just kept her company as she languished in the water. Closing her eyes, she sunk down as far as she could without drowning—and stayed there until the water went tepid. She willed the universe to deliver an easy solution for her and Eric. Something that made sense, something she could live with. Nothing came.
After almost an hour, she got out of the tub and Eric put her in one of his wife beaters and a pair of boxer shorts. In vain, Eric was trying to figure out how to make her feel better. He’d held her, stroked her hair, given her tea –-but she was just sitting there, on top of his desk, leaning back against the wall, looking listless and barely speaking. He felt crushingly inadequate.
He also felt a looming sense of dread.
“Should I get you some DayQuil? Maybe you have the flu.”
“No, I’m okay. The bath helped.”
“You’re not okay, though. What can I do?”
“I don’t think you can do anything,” she said. “For a really long time. Too long.”
