by Julia Kent
Fuck Jamey.
Fuck being nice.
It’s time to be real.
Slowly, achingly, I shore myself up inside, knowing this is it. Do or die moment. I’m about to show her how I really feel and two minutes from now, we’ll either be closer than ever, or —
I can’t think about or.
“I’m so glad I have a real friend like you, Ryan,” she says, sighing into my neck. “You’re so sweet. Maybe I should take you to Jenny’s wedding as my date.” She laughs, then her breath evens out, body language clear. This hug is firmly in the Friend Zone.
Friend. All the bad words start with F.
My eyes fly open. I tense, all the muscles I’ve just willed into action going cold at her suggestion.
“Urg?” I say. No, it’s not a word. I’m beyond words.
“I know, right? No one would believe it.” Her laugh feels like fingernails raking my balls.
I’m speechless.
She pulls away and hits my chest pretty hard. “But next time I’m dating a gay guy, say something!” Her eyes are nervous as she moves away from me, grabbing her chopsticks like they’re a shield, digging through her carton for a shrimp. “None of my friends in high school told me my boyfriend my senior year was gay, either.”
“Uh.” I’m down to single-syllable grunts. That’s all I’ve got. My body is in flames, like a jetliner shot down by a rogue state.
A rogue state called Friendlandia.
“I mean, when I later realized he put more thought into his outfit than I did into mine for prom…” Her eyes go unfocused. “And he had much better hair.”
“Maybe you have a thing for gay guys,” I say.
I instantly regret the words.
“What?”
“Um, maybe it’s just… there’s some reason they appeal to you. They’re your type.”
“I don’t have a type. I don’t fall in love with a type. I fall in love with people. Not types.” She snorts and chews, then swallows. “And from what Zeke’s told me about you, you have a type, and it’s not gay guys. We might both love watching stupid survivalist shows, but we don’t both love the same people.”
“What’s Zeke said about me?” I’m going to kill him.
“You know. You two go on the prowl most weekends.”
“On the prowl? I haven’t heard that phrase since my grandma was alive.” Zeke’s lying. Sure, I go out with him to the bars a couple times a month, and some nights he finds someone to go home with. Not me.
I mean, I date, but...
“It’s okay, Ryan,” she says sincerely. “I get it. Guys like you, you know… you have different standards.”
“Different standards?”
“For women. When you’re a 10, you can pursue 10s.”
“You think I’m a 10?” I sit up nice and proud, batting my eyelashes, buying time to control the crazy surge of need that makes me nearly lunge across the couch.
She sputters, then starts laughing, a hyena sound that ends with giggles. It’s adorable. It makes me want her more. “You wouldn’t be at O in your job if you weren’t a 10. You’re a 10. Zeke’s a 10.” She thinks for a minute. “And Henry’s an 11.”
“Hey!” I’m mildly offended, but happy to talk about anything that distracts me from the fatal mistake I almost made just moments ago. “I’m not an 11?”
“Henry is nearly seven feet tall, built like Superman, a gorgeous ginger like Prince Harry, and is married to the sweetest woman on the planet who is a whip-smart health journalist.” She gives me a look that says, Beat that.
“But can he braid hair like me?”
Her lips puff out like she’s considering the evidence. I want to kiss her again.
I shove a throw pillow over my crotch and stuff my face with Tom Yum soup, slurping be damned.
“Okay, you do get points for braiding. You’re a 10.5.”
“As long as I beat Zeke, I can handle that.” I give her a serious look. “What would it take for me to become an 11?”
“Find someone as awesome as Jemma?”
I stare at her, the words caught in my throat.
The episode begins, and the first words out of the announcer’s mouth are, “Kill two birds with one stone.”
Yeah.
Right.
Chapter 4
CARRIE
People talk about muscle memory all the time. It means when you do something over and over, you get really good at it. It becomes automatic. I was good at loving Jamey.
The heart's a muscle, right?
And now loving him is such a habit, I can't seem to stop.
I reach for my phone before I'm really awake in the morning, checking for his messages. It's not till I'm squinting at the tiny screen that I remember.
I stagger into the kitchen and pour my coffee into one of the beautiful French mugs Jamey gave me when I moved into this tiny apartment of my own. He bought them at Anthropologie, our favorite store. My kitchen is so small, he only bought two. One for each of us.
I want to go back to bed. If I can just stay asleep, I won't have to remember that I'll be drinking my coffee alone from now on. When other women get dumped, they can tell themselves, "He'll be back. He'll realize what we have, how great it is."
I don't have that comfort.
No matter what happens, Jamey is never coming back to me. I’m not his type. I never was. My heart isn’t just breaking. It’s slamming into a massive concrete wall of reality every time I remember.
Jenny hasn’t texted me. Not even an R U OK. Maybe Jamey hasn’t told her yet. I’m sure as hell not rushing to let my friend know that her brother dumped me for a guy. I’m not going to out him to his family before he’s ready. I’m not that angry — and I’m not that person, either.
And what about the wedding? How can I show my face there? I joked about Ryan being my date because I need a date. Not Ryan, though. No way. He would do it if I forced him to, but I don’t just need a date.
I need a boyfriend. A lust and passion-filled whirlwind romance that will shock Jamey to his core and make everyone not think of me as Poor Carrie.
The only thing worse than being dumped by a gay guy you didn’t know was gay is being treated like Poor Carrie. Like it’s not even two separate words. Poorcarrie. Poorcarrie. The whispers and gossip and sad puppy-dog eyes will kill me.
I have to back out of the wedding. I have to. Where am I going to magically find some guy who’s madly in love with me, who can’t keep his hands off me, who is sweet and kind and generous and broad-shouldered and muscled and so hot even Jamey lusts after him, thus making me the Queen of All Comebacks? In only three weeks?
Right. Never going to happen.
It’s too late for a shower. I can barely drag myself to the closet to get dressed. Who cares what I look like? It's just work. It's not like I have a date tonight. Or ever.
The black knit skirt I wore yesterday is lying on the floor by the foot of my bed. I pick it up and give it a shake. No one will notice if I wear it again today. Most of my clothes are in the laundry basket now, but I pull an old white shirt off a hanger. I add black boots, simple flats that scream Soviet era utilitarianism.
Good enough.
It's not till I'm trudging down the stairs to the T station that I remember: I have a meeting today. A big one. The Anterdec team is coming to talk about our new phone tree customer interface, and Chloe asked me to sit in because of my involvement in the project. I freeze on the stairs, forcing the hordes of hurrying workers to dodge around me.
Right now, I am less well-dressed than the woman standing by the subway entrance holding a sign and collecting cash in a cup. I’ll bet her last boyfriend didn’t dump her for an antique maps dealer.
“Or what if he did?” I gasp, muttering to myself. A bearded hipster carrying a folded bike with a hemp strap around the handlebars looks at me like I’m losing it.
Because I am.
My hair is dirty. I have no makeup on and there are dark grey circles un
der my eyes. There is no time to go home and start all over again.
Amanda Warrick is going to be in that meeting. Crap. She's always perfect.
I make a U-turn and run back up the stairs. There's a CVS on the corner of this block. It's not Sephora, but it will have to do. Eight minutes and $57.45 later, I am back out on the sidewalk, carrying a plastic bag with foundation, mascara, lipstick, blush, a brush, and a hairclip. Also a can of dry shampoo and a pair of black tights.
I toss some change in that poor woman’s cup. She gives me a conspirator’s smile.
According to the drug store register receipt, I saved eight bucks with my customer card. It's my lucky day.
Customer card… interface… an idea attempts to form in my thick and foggy brain. Could we give our O clients a membership card that confers benefits? Not just "buy nine massages, get the tenth for free," but something really fun and unexpected? I need to talk to Ryan. He can tell me what the clients would love, and he'll understand the programming issues. That was his minor in college.
I take off my jacket in the O Spa lobby and stuff it into the CVS bag, hoping to look like I've been at work for hours. Given the dirty hair, tired under-eye circles, and yesterday's skirt, I really do look like I never went home last night. Great.
I duck into the ladies' room and wash my face with the Tropical Paradise hand soap from the dispenser, drying it with paper towels. My skin instantly feels like it's going to crack and fall off, and I am not going to escape the scent of chemical pina colada today. I unpack my purchases and get to work with them.
Makeup is really just hope in a jar, or a tube, or a pencil. Doesn't matter if it's CoverGirl or the priciest brand at the Neiman Marcus counter, I defy you to open the package without believing on some level that you are about to be transformed into Gigi Hadid.
No matter how many times I have bought a new lipstick, since I was thirteen years old, I still pull off the cap with the expectation that my life is about to change forever.
It's worth eight dollars just for that moment.
When I emerge from the bathroom, no one mistakes me for Gigi’s older sister, but they don't reach for their tissue boxes, either. Hayley, the receptionist, looks up when I pass her desk. She brightens.
"Carrie! You look like you got some sleep." She jumps up and hugs me. "See, I told you it would get easier!"
I got sleep because I went to bed at 7:15 last night with two Tylenol PM. But she doesn't need to know that.
"I know just what you're going through. When Carlos broke up with me last spring, I thought my life was over," Hayley confides. "I stayed home three nights in a row, crying and eating Oreos. My mother was so worried." Hayley is twenty-one. "But then my girlfriends made me go out dancing with them, and what do you think? I met Javier that very night! And we've been together ever since! It was fate."
“That’s great,” I say weakly, hating her on the inside.
She smiles a satisfied smile. "Our song is 'Single Ladies.'"
This is clearly supposed to make me feel better. It doesn't. Tears prickle behind my eyes. No. No crying. Not until I’m at my desk.
"Thanks, Hayley," I manage. "What time is the Anterdec meeting this morning?"
She checks the schedule. "Ten o'clock."
"Thanks again."
I head back to my computer and open up my phone tree script. Somehow I've got to focus my brain on this. I've got all the basic options and responses down, but some of the more specific questions still need to be considered. I've spent hours interviewing Hayley and the spa receptionists downstairs to identify the most common requests.
And the most unusual.
It's O. We get quite a large number of unusual requests:
What wine pairing do you recommend with strawberry massage oil? (I'll connect you to our catering manager.)
The key to my handcuffs is lost, how do I get them unlocked? (Bring them back and we will give you another key. Unless someone is wearing them, in which case, use bolt cutters.)
Can I book a vaginal massage party for my book club meeting? (Yes. What book are you reading?)
I need to determine how deep the technology can go before the call has to be handled by a live person. For cost savings and improved efficiency, the more the process can be automated, the better. But O is decidedly not your average call center. Hours and directions are easy. Retail clients looking for standard appointments are referred to our website to see our menu of services and book online. Club members, of course, have their own special service team.
But O is all about customized, personal service at every level.
My computer makes a sound and I jump. Chloe, my boss, has sent me a message.
Carrie, can you come in for a minute?
I pause in the open door to her office. She looks up. As always, the surface of her glass waterfall desk is clear and pristine. A single white rose stands in a polished steel vase. The gauzy Roman shades on the windows filter the light into a soft haze. No matter what crazy stress is going on at O, Chloe’s office is a peaceful retreat. It’s like a spa within a spa.
"Hey," she says calmly. "Ready for the meeting?"
"I think so. I made a chart of the phone tree that shows all the options and where they lead. And I have sample recordings of three different voices, two men and a woman. After I get today's feedback, I'll arrange a focus group. That will help us understand how clients will respond."
"Great," she says, studying me. "You look pretty good for someone having a pretty bad week."
"You heard?" Chloe is a little older than me, but not much. She's so together — she has this great job and an adorable baby girl and her boyfriend Nick is amazing. She has everything. Her life is moving forward perfectly.
I have nothing. My life is now actually sliding backward. My broken vagina changes the laws of thermodynamics and makes Einstein rethink his theory. I can reverse human progress.
Or, at least, forget to shower on an important career day.
"I heard. You've been crying for four days and you've worn that skirt for three. So I asked Henry what happened." She shrugs, a delicate gesture that looks so elegant on her. When I do it, I look like Shrek’s cousin.
I sink down into a chair across from her and bury my face in my hands. Great. If Henry knows, then the entire staff knows. And if the entire staff knows, then I’m already part of the rumor mill. Poor Carrie, they’re all thinking.
Poorcarrie.
"Carrie, I know how you feel. It's awful. You feel so alone, and you're sure you'll never meet anyone else, and you miss him like crazy. You want to call him. You think you are never going to have fun again in your life. It's a physical pain, and you don't know how to make it stop hurting."
Exactly. I nod my head, my face still hidden.
"And you are embarrassed."
I look up. "You heard that part, too?"
"It wasn't hard to figure out."
I hide my face again and groan.
"The reason I know how you feel is that I was in the same place last year. Carrie, if you have forgotten my breakup with Joe, you're the only person at O who has. Or ever will. You think you're embarrassed? Joe showed up here, drunk, and had to be removed by security! He hit people! He threw up in the reception area!"
She smiles ruefully. "And it was the best thing that ever happened to me."
"I don't understand… ?"
"Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew everything with Joe was all wrong. But it was something, and I didn't have the courage to let it go. What if I'd stayed in the relationship? It scares me to even think about it." Chloe reaches up to her neckline and plays with a beautiful necklace, one that her boyfriend Nick gave her. It looks like a delicate, gold gyroscope.
"But I didn't know anything was wrong between Jamey and me, Chloe. How could I not know? Everyone else knew! I feel so stupid. I can’t even figure out when a guy is with me because he wants companionship or passion!”
"Maybe you just wanted it to be right so mu
ch that you ignored what felt wrong? And you have so much love inside you, and that kind of took over your rational brain. Jamey's a really nice guy. That wasn't the problem, right?" Her words are nonjudgmental. Comforting. Friendly and wise. Chloe is everything I could ask for in a boss. Her chocolate brown eyes are filled with sympathy and understanding.
"Right." I'm going to cry again, I can feel it coming, and then I'm going to have to start all over again with the Maybelline Instant Age Rewind Concealer. They should make Instant Boyfriend Rewind. That would be a big seller. I'd buy a case.
“I know you don’t believe it, but this is going to be the best thing that’s ever happened to you. How can you meet the right guy if you’re busy with someone who’s wrong for you?”
“That must be what Jamey was asking himself,” I say bitterly.
Chloe smiles sadly. “Now go get ready for the meeting. They’ll be here in half an hour.” She hesitates. “You want to borrow a hair clip?”
A subtle hint. I touch the unpolished straggly mess that’s spilling down my back. The dry shampoo could only do so much.
“No, thanks though. I have one at my desk.” I suddenly feel an impulse to get away from her, even though she’s so nice. Appearances are everything at O, and I’m definitely under-performing right now. I need to triage my situation. I wish there was time to run to the spa bathrooms and grab a shower. I wave and bolt out of her office like a scared little rabbit.
Turning the corner into my cubicle, I run smack into Ryan. He’s holding a bag, or he was until I knocked it out of his hands. Our bodies meet, his hard, mine anxious. He’s so warm, my hands brushing against the ironed cotton of his soft denim shirt.
One of his hands reaches out, landing on my hip, while I grab his shoulders to avoid falling over. His breath smells like sugar and coffee. It’s warm against my cheek and my heart flutters in my chest.
He holds onto my hip a second longer than he should, then pulls away. I let out a long sigh and wonder what the hell my body thinks it’s doing. This is Ryan. Ryan. I am just confused after Jamey. It’s been proven my wires are crossed inside, a jumble of circuits that make no sense.
